Silly Things
by ViennaSunset
Summary: Molly Hooper probes into the mystery shrouding Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes. Love triangles, jealousy and the delusion of Irene Adler. Rated M for adult themes. Sherlolly.
1. Prologue

**I really wanted to write a new Sherlock/Molly fic, and here it is. Set during _A Scandal in Belgravia_ because, let's face it, that episode was just a 90 minute porno. I've never really attempted a multi-chapter fic before, so be kind. My attention span only ever reaches to a one or two shot. I have a sort of idea where it's going, but you know, I'm always open to suggestions about things. I tried to keep it moderately in character as well but, you know, I'm not the mighty Moffat or the Godly Gatiss.**

**BEWARE: RATING WILL CHANGE TO M BECAUSE OF SEXYTIMES LATER. (For now it's nice and clean). **

**This way for jealousy, Irene Adler, a love triangle and Sherlolly.**

**Reviews welcome with open arms.**

**Many thanks x**

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><p><strong>P R O L O G U E<strong>

_We all do silly things._

She hated herself for it, but his presence rendered her useless. All those years of being smart, medical school, doctorates and being the top of her game were suddenly vanquished to nothing whenever he was nearby. It was if whenever she was in a room with him her faculties went on an excursion and left her mouth in charge of proceedings. Today was a typical example. There he was inspecting some woman's phone. A woman she knew he'd been seeing a lot of. Deep down she knew there was more to this woman than another one of Sherlock's cases.

"Is she your girlfriend?" Big mistake. She knew full well Sherlock didn't have girlfriends; in all her years knowing the man she'd never seen him cast as much as an inquisitive eye on a woman unless he thought she held the key to solving a puzzle.

"You think she's my girlfriend because I'm x-raying her possessions?" He looked confused by her stupidity, not quite tearing his eyes away from his work. Molly died inside a little bit. She didn't know quite what to make of it. She had partially come to terms with the fact Sherlock Holmes was one day going to find a woman, or man, he loved, and she'd accepted that that woman was never going to be her. On her darkest days Molly contemplated whether Sherlock had found this soul mate in John Watson. She shrugged off the thought. At that moment, paralysed by the man sitting before her she thought back at all the boyfriends she'd ever had. Minimal, admittedly, a couple of months the longest. She thought of all the things she did for these boyfriends. She'd pick them up from stations when they went on dates, or buy them a cup of coffee if they'd bought her one beforehand. Nothing special. Then she thought of all the things she'd done for Sherlock Holmes. Come to Barts at five in the morning because he needed her access to the morgue, work extra hours just to help him solve a new case, cancel dates so he could have access to the laboratory. She'd even paid a fortune for a gift for him for Christmas just to have him humiliate her in front of her closest friends. Stupid Molly. Suddenly she realised she needed to speak.

"We all do silly things."

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><p><strong>All the love for reading. More soon.<strong>


	2. Curiosity

**The prologue was a little too short to post alone. And, seeing as I've written this chapter, I thought I'd post it. It'll give you an idea of the mood of the piece. Don't worry, Sherlolly shall come soon. I just like the whole 'SHERLOCK IS AN ARSE' thing too much not to add it in for a bit. As much as I love Irene Adler and Sherlock together, nothing will beat Sherlolly. Enjoy. Please review.**

**Thank you in advance x**

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><p><strong>C U R I O U S I T Y<strong>

Ten minutes after he'd sprinted out of the lab, Molly noticed his phone on the table. She gave it until the end of her shift, but he didn't come back for it. She managed two whole hours without going through it, though, after the second, her curiosity got the better of her. Sitting beside her locker she fiddled with the phone, playing with the buttons so bright lights flashed on the screen. Surprisingly, she found there was no pass code, just one click of a button and Sherlock Holmes's life was in her palm. The only photographs on there were of bodies and graffiti on walls. Nothing unusual for him, she thought to herself. As she toyed with it, she wondered what else there could be on it. She wasn't a particularly nosey woman, just curious. She'd only ever received two text messaged from him in her life; one asking to use the lab, the second sent to her by mistake instead of his brother. Both times she'd almost choked on her own heart when she saw his name unexpectedly flash up on her phone.

The next thing Molly knew she was in his inbox of text messages, desperately searching for her name. She found the folder with their text messages; yes, still two. She should have locked the phone then and there, but instead she scrolled up, past all the boring messages between him, Lestrade and John until her attention stopped upon a contact listed simply as 'The Woman'. Swallowing she clicked it. Message after message filed onto the screen, each one like a knife to the gut.

_I'm not hungry, let's have dinner._

_Bored in a hotel. Join me. Let's have dinner._

_John's blog is HILARIOUS. I think he likes you more than I do. Let's have dinner._

_I like your funny hat._

_Join me._

_Oh for god's sake, let's have dinner._

_You looked sexy on Crimewatch._

_Let's have dinner._

Molly snapped the phone off and let out a long hot breath. Curiosity had most definitely killed the cat.

It was only as Molly Hooper pulled up to the door of 221B did she ask herself what the hell she was doing. His phone in her lap she thrust some money at the cab driver and jumped out, bracing herself against the bitter cold. This was another one of those _silly things_, she thought. Paying a fortune for a cab halfway across London just to deliver his phone. She already knew he wasn't going to say thank you, but she reasoned he'd need his phone pretty soon. She couldn't believe he'd left it behind in the first place, although he had been rather engrossed in that woman's phone at the time. She had contemplated keeping it until the morning, though she didn't see the point. She didn't really want to go trawling through it anymore incase she found anymore messages or, god forbid, picture messages which may make her want to eat her own heart.

Mrs Hudson let her in and she gently climbed the steps, pausing outside his flat. She wondered if he was home; knowing Sherlock probably not. Then, just as she was about to knock she heard the soft sound of the strings of his violin, gently bowing a melody which crept through the cracks in the door. She waited for a moment, until the break in the music before she knocked. The violin music didn't stop and there was a delay before a slightly infuriated looking John Watson answered, a tiny bit startled to see her standing there.

"Molly."

She smiled, her eyes automatically gazing over his shoulder to Sherlock who was facing the window, vigorously playing a now violently up tempo tune upon his violin. She stood still for a moment watching, and then suddenly jumped back into the moment. There it was again; brain taking a total leave of her senses.

"I came because, uh…" She produced the phone, almost dropping it in her awkward attempt to straighten her senses, "Sherlock left this at the hospital."

"Sherlock?" John spun to his friend who still hadn't turned around, "You left your phone."

Pause.

"Molly brought it back, for you." John encouraged. "What do you say?" Pushing Sherlock for a thank you was like getting blood from a stone. Sherlock remained facing the window still playing. Turning back to face Molly, John gave the young woman a look which seemed to say '_well I tried'_. He plucked the phone from her hand and glanced at the screen.

"Thank you, Molly." John placed the phone on the side and cocked his head to one side, "How'd you get here?"  
>"Cab." Molly looked at her watch. Twenty past three; she regretted taking the night shift now. "No tubes this time in the morning."<p>

"Here let me get you some money to get back." John fished in his pocket, but Molly blustered to stop him.

"No, no, please, honestly it's okay." She pushed his hand away, "I know that phone is his life, I mean I thought it was better to get it back as soon as possible. Lot's of important things on it." She paused and Sherlock ceased playing. Still nothing was said from the man of the moment.

"Well do you want to stay for a drink?"

"No I should be getting home. I'm surprised you're still up."

"Hard to sleep with an orchestra in the sitting room." John offered her a smile, "Well if you're sure?"

"Yes." Molly lied, tightening her scarf around her neck, "I'll probably see you soon, I expect. At the hospital?" She cast an eye over John's shoulder, and sighed.

"Goodnight Sherlock." Nothing. She looked a little sadly back at John, "Goodnight."

John threw the phone at Sherlock, causing the man to emit a mild expression of alarm as it clattered to the floor.

"Do you mind? That was expensive."

"I honestly can't believe you." John slumped in the chair and massaged the bridge of his nose, "You're an absolute bastard of a man."

"What?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused at his flatmate's sudden anger. He bent down and picked up the phone, studying the buttons and the screen, sniffing before he stuffed it back into his pocket.

"Wh—what?" John repeated incredulously, finger pointing towards the front door, "That girl has travelled half the way across the capital at night to bring back your sodding phone and you couldn't even manage a simple thank you?"

"I was thinking."

"I'm sick of you just treading all over people, innocent, nice people; people who treat you way better than you ever deserve to be treated. All you ever do is throw it all back in their faces."

"She only brought back my phone, John. It's hardly walking on hot coals."  
>"That's not the p-" John stopped and held his hands up, "You know what; sod it. I'm going to bed. If you can't fathom what the right thing to do is, then dear God there really is no helping you."<p>

John stormed up the stairs to his bedroom, punctuating the end to his tirade with a slam of his door.

Sherlock set the violin down on an armchair and steepled his fingers under his chin. Reaching into his pocket he took out his own mobile, holding it up to the light to inspect the buttons again. Tiny little fingerprints etched on the surface. Falling into the chair he unlocked the phone and scrolled through. Just as he thought. Slowly he typed, sent and placed the phone back into his pocket before switching out the light to retire to his bedroom.


	3. Guilt

**Thank you for the lovely reviews, those who are reading. I truly appreciate it. This scene I wanted to try and get across Sherlock's feelings about Irene Adler. I literally am being so cruel to Molly, though she'd like this (if she was real). Anyway, enjoy.**

**Let me know what you think x**

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><p><strong>G U I L T<strong>

It took her forever to catch a cab from Baker Street, though the wait for the warmth of the car made it all the more inviting. She cuddled inside her coat, letting out a long sigh, a day's frustration and turmoil billowing through her lips. She wished you erase seeing something from your memory. The fact Sherlock didn't say thank you didn't injure her as much as she'd have expected; she hadn't expected any sort of thanks from him anyway. Her mind was far too focused on the text messages from that woman. She didn't think she'd sleep. If it was his girlfriend it would, admittedly, cut her to the quick, but then again at least she'd know. At least then she'd be a step closer to solving the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. She rested her head against the cool pane of glass in the window. Suddenly her phone in her lap flashed and buzzed violently, causing a little shudder of shock to cripple her momentarily.

_Sherlock Holmes._

There was that feeling again. Even though it was now 99.9% certain that he had another woman on the boil, she still felt that giddy need when his name flashed up on her phone. She almost kicked herself at her own desperation. Her cold fingers fumbled foolishly with the keypad, hungrily pressing every button until the message displayed itself on the screen. There. Two little words, just enough to make her feel slightly better.

_Thank you – SH._

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><p>He was there the next day, on cue; alone, again, fiddling with a microscope. At least he wasn't breaking the radiographer's machine with that bloody mobile phone again. Molly stopped beside him and made herself look busy with some papers on the desk.<p>

"Hello." She hesitated at a piece of paper with a rather beautiful woman on it biting a whip. Embarrassed, she shuffled the papers into a neat pile, wedging that particular photography right at the back so she wouldn't have to look at it.

"Not x-raying mobile phones today, then?"

"Sadly not." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably as Molly stood behind him, peeking over his shoulder.

"I got your message." She paused, "You're welcome."

"Find anything interesting?" Sherlock pulled his gaze away from the microscope and turned to face the young doctor, finding that, upon turning, she was a lot closer than he anticipated. She quickly moved back, her face flushing a little.

"I-I beg your pardon?" She stumbled over her words and her eyes flickered towards her shoes. Sherlock let a small smile tug at the corner of his lips.

"On my phone; did you find anything interesting on there?"

"I don't know-what do you mean?"

"You looked through it, obviously." He pulled the phone from his pocket, "You're a woman, and from what I've heard women love to pry."

"_You_ like to pry; you were x-raying a phone yesterday." Molly pointed out, surprised that her brain managed quite a valid point. Sherlock immediately shot that down.

"I was investigating, for a purpose." Sherlock held the phone up to the beam from the clinical light, "Not only that, there are small fingerprints, too small to be mine, all over the buttons and screen."

"I was holding the phone-"

"Not to mention the fact when I unlocked my phone the first screen that came up was a list of messages I haven't seen in weeks."

_Shit_. Molly swallowed, her mouth fall ajar. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and her hands wrung together in front of her. Sherlock placed the phone on the side and cocked his head to one side, seemingly awaiting an answer.

"Sorry." Molly managed. She half expected him to storm out; that was usually his style. But instead the faint glitter of a smile was etched on his lips.

Sherlock watched her for a moment, slightly impressed at how well she had begun to manage the situation. Even though it had been blatantly obvious to him that she'd been down his phone from the moment she knocked on the door to 221B. Who would travel all that way across London in the dead of night to give a phone back unless she had a good reason not to keep it until morning? Deducing, he realised she'd already had her fill of the phone; she'd been curious, seen what she wanted to see (or what she didn't want to see, whatever the difference) and thus had no intention of keeping the phone with her all night. All that, plus Molly's beautifully timed comment of there being lots of '_important'_ things on there. Curiosity killed the cat, as it were.

"Don't be sorry. I'm actually quite impressed." Sherlock assured her, not a hint of sarcasm evident in his voice.

"No, it was your phone and I shouldn't have-" She tripped on her words, "Impressed?"

"Yes. I didn't think you had it in you."

Molly realised only Sherlock could blend an insult and a compliment into one. She didn't know quite how to tackle that last comment. Suddenly she was the sole proprietor of this awkward silence.

"So? Find anything interesting?" He repeated. Molly shook her head quickly.

"No pictures?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side, "Messages?"

Silence.

"You already know what I looked at." Molly said slowly, "Why do you want me to say it?"  
>"I want to know what you think."<p>

"Can't you do that anyway? Isn't that your job?"

"I'm a detective, Molly, I see and deduce from physical things." Sherlock quipped, "I can't tell what goes on inside your mind."  
><em>Evidently, <em>Molly though, choosing instead to not verbalise it.

One half of her wanted to sprint from the lab screaming with the sheer mortification of being caught out. However, the other half, and strangely the more dominant half, advised her to stay and battle this one out.

"Who is she?" She asked, waiting for a reply which would end her world. Instead she got:

"A woman." Sherlock squinted his eyes at Molly, studying her. Hair unwashed, late night sleep. Subtle tint of red wine around her bottom lip. He realised saying that didn't really answer Molly's question. He wondered why her face dropped whenever he talked about other women.  
>"Your texts were very…friendly."<p>

"_Her_ texts were very friendly." He corrected her, "My texts were virtually non-existent."

The young doctor was rendered dumb for a moment; she suddenly realised the man was right. All the text messages were _from_ this woman. There was only one from him wishing her a Happy New Year.

"I thought you and her were-"

"She is a woman who tried to trick me; a woman who drugged and beat me all for a mobile phone which, consequently, she gave to me as a Christmas present."

Molly wondered why he was telling her all this. She never knew the ins and outs of his cases, especially this latest mystery involving this particular woman. But still Sherlock continued, "She lies, cheats, steals and blackmails. This is a woman sells her body and her modesty for a living, Molly, not because she needs the money to feed her children, but because she is hungry for power and dominance." He spun on his chair, and, in one fluid motion he was on his feet, shrugging into his coat.

"So no, Molly, she never was, and never will be my girlfriend." With that he snatched up his papers and fled the lab in one quick succession.

Molly realised her mouth was open this whole time. Snapping it shut she cursed herself for ever looking down that bloody phone. For a few minutes she sat alone in the lab on the warm seat he'd left, pondering over what he'd said. He'd been so adamant that she was nothing more to him than just another woman. Maybe she was just a deranged fan of his who kept sending him texts. He spoke with such revulsion about her, though, that Molly began to wonder whether he really truly disliked her. She mirrored herself to his woman; Molly really only ever lied to make someone else feel better. She'd never cheated or stole, or blackmailed anybody, come to think of it. She'd most certainly never sold her body and her living was made cutting up cadavers. It seemed Molly and this _woman_ were polar opposites. So, if Sherlock truly detested this woman for these qualities, then surely he'd like her for being completely different? _Scratch that_, she thought, _Sherlock isn't that simple._

Molly looked over the lab surface, one piece of paper left discared by Sherlock Holmes as he'd rushed out the door. That photograph she'd shoved to the back of the pile. She inspected it. The woman was insanely gorgeous; flawless skin, dark hair classily clipped back while her perfect teeth bit down on a riding crop. Even though the picture was cut just by her bust, it was evident the woman was naked. Molly read the masthead.

_Know when you are beaten._

In small letters printed at the bottom were the words _The Woman_. So this was her. This perfectly shaped classy dominatrix. Any man on earth would probably fall to his knees for her; she hardly needed the whip. Why hadn't Sherlock? She laid the paper on the table and wondered if really, truthfully, deep down in that part of Sherlock that nobody knows, whether he already had.

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><p><strong>Rating will go up next chapter. Talk of masturbation and stuff. Yes. We like that. How is the characterisation? I'm trying to keep it as 'in-character' as possible, but if there's anything I should change, let me know.<strong>


	4. Assumptions

**Hey guys. Thanks for all the lovely reviews; I'm so happy people are reading! The rating has raised for this chapter because of talk of sex and masturbation and all that stuff. So yeah. Let me know what you think :)**

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><p><strong>A S S U M P T I O N S<strong>

Alone at 221B, Sherlock Holmes was nestled in his armchair, knees tucked up to his chin while his hands played with his phone. Since he had Irene Adler's phone, he obviously hadn't received any text messages from her in the past however long it'd been. To be honest, he appreciated the apparent lack of awkward laughter whenever that message alert noise rung out across the flat. He'd always catch a glimpse of John's curious, yet immature smile whenever Irene Adler's erotic moan belted out from his phone. He wondered what Irene was thinking when she put that ringtone on his phone; did she think it was a joke, or was it a really forward attempt at trying to seduce him? Sherlock wondered how many men would ejaculate at the sound of her moaning; what made that particular sound so arousing? Either way, it did nothing for the detective.

Sherlock knew he had never been a sex-driven human being. His sex was his work, and his climax was solving the puzzle. That grey area between cases was the build up of sexual frustration. This was something John couldn't understand. Not that the two men discussed sex often, but if they ever did, it always ended in an argument, for John could never quite grasp the concept of a sexless life. The few times Sherlock had ever given himself sexual relief it was purely because it was biologically necessary, not because he particularly wanted to. He could never recall what he thought about during, though. Probably, as dull as it sounded to everybody else, it was a particularly enthralling case.

Slowly, he pressed at the buttons of his mobile and called up his ringtone inventory, scrolling down to Irene's personalised one he clicked play, studying as her moan rung out from the phone. And again. He decided to put it on a loop and sit beside his phone as the moan rang out over and over again. It sounded different each time, to Sherlock, but never did it give him any sexual stimulation. The moan was fake, obviously; Irene would hardly have darted for her phone at the point of orgasm just to record a clip of her genuine climaxing moan. The pitch and breathy quality were too false; too resembling of a bad pornographic film. The woman was an actress, a game player and Sherlock found nothing remotely attractive in the fact she'd probably done this for many other people in the past. And he certainly didn't find it erotic that she'd be so forward in it. Her confidence was endearing, he couldn't deny it, and he supposed she was an attractive woman. He knew many men would bend over backwards (quite literally) to have her in command of them for one night. But he just didn't see the appeal.

With the ringtone playing full volume on a loop, Sherlock didn't notice John enter the flat until he was halfway across the living room, shopping in hand, looking slightly confused.

"What are you doing?" John piped up. In one swift movement, Sherlock shut off the ringtone and snapped his head up.

"Experiment."  
>"Involving Irene Adler's sexy text tone?" John smiled adolescently and placed a carrier bag on the table, "We all know those types of <em>experiments<em>."

"I don't know what you're talking about…" Sherlock answered quickly standing to fiddle with something absent-mindedly on the fireplace.

"It's okay, you don't need act on the defensive, I'm just glad you're actually human."

"What?" Sherlock stopped. Oh John, always getting the wrong end of the stick on every possible occasion, "I don't think you understand."

"Sherlock I'm a thirty-eight year old man, I understand." John said facing the fridge, "Do you want me to leave the room?"  
>"No." Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion, "Why do people always assume things?"<p>

"You assume, don't you? Isn't that why you're a detective?"

"I honestly don't want to dignify that ridiculous question with an answer," Sherlock said smoothly, "But I will anyway, because you obviously don't recognise your own ignorance. I deduce and induce. I either see something and work my way to a conclusion from that, or I have a theory then find things to match that theory in order to come to my conclusion. Assumptions are made without not knowing the facts. I know the facts from what I see and hear."

"Well from what I see and hear there is a rather beautiful woman who oozes sex appeal. You have a very explicit recording of her on your phone which I have just walked in on you, playing on a loop while you're home alone." John cocked his head to the side, rather pleased with his own detective skills. "I think my conclusion is rather appropriate."

"You think she's beautiful and oozes sex appeal?" Sherlock queried, a tad confused, "Why do you assume that just because she's naked the majority of the time, whipping and torturing people with a riding crop, putting sexually explicit ringtones on my phone, that I'm suddenly besotted with the woman?"

"Works for most men." John answered, shrugging.

"I'm not most men." Sherlock countered quickly. John went to respond, however there was no response to that. He was right; he wasn't most men. Most men would probably have no blood left in their brain if Irene Adler so much as brushed past them.

"You do like her, though, don't you?" John asked, "Why else would you be listening to her moaning while you're home alone?"

"Experiment." Sherlock repeated. It was technically true. He wanted to see whether it did anything for him, and, conclusively, it didn't. At all. He didn't feel comfortably sharing this knowledge with John; far too awkward. Anyway, John seemed hell-bent on proving that Sherlock was in fact masturbating over Irene Adler's ringtone, and, for once, Sherlock didn't have to energy to argue with his flat mate. Quickly picking up his coat, Sherlock wound his scarf around his neck and marched towards the front door.

"Where are you going? Don't want to withdraw to your bedroom with your new favourite ringtone?" John let out that ridiculously immature smile and leant on the counter. Sherlock sniffed instead of answering and marched out of the flat with haste before John Watson could say one more foolish word.

It was late again. Her section of the hospital was eerily deserted. Most people would find it disconcerting, sharing a room with a dozen or so chilled corpses in the dead of night, but not Molly Hooper. She'd become acclimatised to death in a way most people considered morbid.

_The dead can't hurt you, but the living can._ Her grandmother used to say. Molly killed the lights and hurried towards the lift, hoping she hadn't missed her last train; she really couldn't be doing with spending more money on cabs. As the doors slid open, she went to walk inside but was confronted by a tall man in a dark coat. Not expecting to see any living person that time of night, she let out a small, ineloquent squeal, almost dropping her bag.

"Sherlock." She panted, "What the bloody hell are you doing here; you gave me the fright of my life."

"Experiment." He said, mentally noting how many times he'd said that today, "Upstairs. Are you getting in or not; you're letting in a draft."

Molly quickly scurried into the lift, the two of them standing on opposite sides of the elevator. She was still embarrassed about the other day, and tried not to look at the man standing opposite, although the mirrored walls of the elevator meant she had direct eye contact with him whichever way she looked.

"How long have you been here?" Molly asked, checking the time.

"About five hours. I was in the lab."  
>"But you need a card…" She trailed off as Sherlock produced a duplicate of her pass card from his pocket, the one she'd lost about three weeks ago.<p>

"Don't mind if I keep this do you? You're not here all the times I need to use the lab."

"How did you…never mind." Molly began to button her coat, bracing herself for the brisk weather outside, "Where's John?"  
>"At home." Sherlock shrugged, as though that was a guess, "Well, that's where I left him."<p>

"Not joining you on your experiments today, then?"

"No, he was being far too annoying." Sherlock turned up his collar. Molly swallowed, looking by her feet. That one small action of his turning his coat collar up made her almost want to collapse.

"I think I'll just take in the night air." Sherlock said absently, as though he was talking to himself. In fact, Molly was sure he'd said that out loud by accident. As they burst through the double doors of the hospital a snap of cold air hit them both and the pair shivered in unison.

"You're not going home?" Molly breathed, "You'll freeze."  
>"Likelihood is, when I get home, John will still be annoying." Sherlock pointed out, "Nowhere is open this time of a night, so I'll just go for a walk. Clears my head."<p>

"You could come back to mine?" _Oh God, Molly,_ she thought. "I mean…like just for a bit, just until you've both calmed down, I mean you're more than welcome, but you…actually." _There it goes again_¸ Molly said to herself, _bye-bye brain, mouth in charge._ She waited. Waited for the utter humiliating hand Sherlock was about to deal; she guessed it was a saving grace that nobody was about to witness it this time. She waited for his words to deliver a stinging slap across her face.

"Okay." She thought she'd misheard. She looked up at Sherlock standing, shivering slightly in the cold. She tipped her head to the side, "What?"  
>"Yes okay." Sherlock repeated, sticking his hand out to hail a passing cab, "Let's go, I think I'm getting frostbite."<p>

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><p><strong>Sherlolly ensues.<strong>


	5. Giving In

**Thank you all so much for the reviews; I'm so grateful honestly. I was at work all day yesterday and on my lunch I looked through all the reviews. I must say it made my shitty day a lot better. I realise I forgot to raise the rating last chapter, though I said I would. Although I think I'll raise it next chapter most ****definitely because of naughtiness which will ensue in the next chapter. Anyway, a little bit of Sherlolly sort-of-fluffiness in this chapter. :) Hopefully still in character.**

**Thanks again for reading :)**

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><p><strong>G I V I N G I N<strong>

Irene Adler surprised herself with her own agility. She scrambled on top of a large bin behind the flat in Baker Street and hung from the drainpipe. Shimmying up, she looked down, rain pelting down so her long brown hair hung in thick ropes around her face. Not her finest hour. She was far more used to Bentleys, flawless fashion and romantic fight scenes, where men would fall like wilted daisies at her feet whenever she walked into a room. Climbing up dirty drainpipes into people's flats wasn't really her style. She was aware, even though it was deeply intimidating to others, that she was sexy. She was confident in it; that's why people paid her extortionate amounts of money to spend the night with her. The woman had the idea that she could have any woman, or man if she was feeling particularly adventurous, that she wanted. It was boring. Sometimes, even the masters of their trade want a challenge. The drainpipe was slippery with the water, yet she retained her grip, fiddling with the window to the flat as she hung from the drainpipe. It swung open and she reached inside, loosening the catch to the bigger window. Once open, she slipped inside landing, like a cat, on her feet. Slowly she opened the door to the rest of the flat.

Empty.

Peeling off her jacket, she shivered. Then, with not an ounce of fear or modesty, she stripped off her wet clothes and made her way towards the bathroom.

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><p>Sherlock stood awkwardly in the hallway, flexing his fingers as his pale eyes studied Molly's home. He could tell from just the hallway what the rest of the house was like, and, consequently, what Molly was like. Molly dropped her coat on the banister and sighed.<p>

"So…" She shifted uncomfortably, "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you."

"I have wine, beer, tea…"

"Tea." He answered. He didn't particularly want tea, just to sit down alone with his thoughts. He took a seat on the sofa beside the cat and inhaled deeply, pressing his fingertips together under his chin. He didn't particularly want to go home, either. John would probably still be up, wondering where he was. Then they'd probably argue about their argument. The whole thing seemed very trivial; who argues over women anyway?

"What?" Molly asked. Sherlock opened his eyes and realised, not only was Molly now sitting on the seat beside him, curled up beside the cat, but that he'd obviously been talking out loud again.

"Nothing." Sherlock ignored the cup of tea on the coffee table. He noted the irony.

"You asked who argues over women." Molly repeated, "Was you asking?"  
>"Not really. Although, I wouldn't know. Not my area."<p>

"Men." Molly nodded, "Men argue over women all the time."

"Do they?" Sherlock looked around the room, drinking in every little detail he found useful.

"Is that what you and John were arguing over; a woman?"

He didn't answer but Molly guessed from his silence that it was. And it hardly took a lot of working out to guess which woman it was. She silently felt her heart slam inside her chest. John must've liked this woman too. To have these two men, these two _friends_, fight over her, she must be very special. Molly thought about it; she didn't think she'd ever had two men fight over her, unless they were fighting over which one drew the short straw and had to be with her.

"That reminds me," she fished into her bag, "You left this the other day. You have a habit of leaving things in the lab." She passed the detective Irene Adler's advertisement, watching his eyes rake over it slowly before he set it on the table.

"Tell me, what do you think when you look at that woman?" Sherlock propositioned her with a question she wasn't expecting. Molly's eyes darted to the photograph.

"Dominatrix." She almost blushed at the word. She'd never really spoken to other people about things like that, especially not Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes. And…?"

"I don't know. Beautiful?"

"You think she's beautiful?" Sherlock's nose wrinkled up a little and he cocked his head, "You really think men would fight over her?"

"I suppose so." She really hoped this wasn't going where it looked like. She didn't really want Sherlock to admit to her, in her house, that he was in love with this woman. "Most men like things like that sort of woman. She looks…confident. You'd have to be mad if you didn't find her attractive."

"I must be mad, then." He almost mumbled it, and Molly was sure she wasn't supposed to hear it. But she did. Her heart did a little skip. Molly ran her hand through Toby's fur and felt him purr under her palm.

"So you weren't fighting over her?"

"Not in the way you're thinking, Molly." He looked a little angry, but then his faced softened as though he was thinking, "I don't see why…why people think that she and I…" He stopped, seemingly embarrassed, but his face not blushing even slightly, which was more than could be said for Molly. She felt the heat in her cheeks.

"You just seemed very interested in her. I suppose you've spent a lot of time with her."

"I'm spending time with you." He answered quickly, adding, "I spend far more time with you than I do with her. People never make assumptions about us."

She hadn't expected him to be so blunt, but he had a point. Not a very valid one, but a point nevertheless.

"I'm different." She tried to shrug off this awkward, heart-breaking feeling, "I'm not…like her."

"You say that as if it's a bad thing." Sherlock guided a hand over the cat, running his hand through the fur by his ears. "You don't want to be like this woman, Molly. Ever."

"Why?"

"I told you before. She does awful things to people for her own amusement."

His words soothed her slightly. She wasn't the same as this woman. His eyes still crept over the picture every few minutes, though he kept looking away.  
>"Everyone just <em>assumes<em> that just because this woman is the way she is that I'm…" He searched for a word, saying it slowly, "Interested."

"I wouldn't know." Molly lied, "I'm not very good at reading people's feelings."

"You're preaching to the choir." He turned to face her, eyes gliding across her face, reading every expression, "Though I can tell you're scared."

She swallowed. He noticed her pupils grown within her eyes, filling her irises like little black pools of ink. The jump in her throat where she swallowed. Ever so slowly he gripped her wrist, feeling her pulse through her skin. She looked down at his touch, aware her heart was thudding dangerously. He needn't have felt her pulse; he could probably have read it through her chest. She was sure he'd never touched her before.

"I'm not scared of you." She answered, her voice glittered with an edge of confidence. Sherlock had never looked at Molly Hooper in this way before. She was always the meek little doctor who would grant his every wish. Just a face in a crowd, a passing character in a play. Though, surprisingly, under pressure, Molly Hooper handled herself quite well. It was just her body that gave her away. For a man who noticed every detail, Sherlock was surprised at himself for not noticing the woman behind this shy little doctor before.

"Would you kiss me, Molly?" He asked. For a moment she sat as though she was hit by a truck which made every nerve in her body shut down and reboot. In any vision whereby she had ever kissed Sherlock Holmes, he'd never asked. She'd always expected that is she ever were to kiss him, it'd be her doing the asking. She wondered if she'd misunderstood.

"In theory?" She asked stupidly, his hand still resting on her wrist.

The cat scurried away somewhere as Sherlock Holmes leant closer to her, his hot breath on her lips. They weren't quite touching, as he shook his head slowly. She barely felt his lips touch hers the first time. She thought he might just peck her and dart off, like he had on Christmas, leaving her stewing in her own stupidity for another five years. But no, he kissed her a little harder, his hands finding the sofa behind her. She wanted to move her arms, but they were stuck by her side dumbly as he kissed her. She heard his nails scratch into the material of the settee, their lips moving in sync, their heads naturally twisting in different directions so their noses didn't clash. Then, as though somebody had injected her with some form of adrenaline, she moved her hands up to his neck, bringing him closer.

Sherlock Holmes had only ever kissed two women in his life. Well, the first had been a woman who'd kissed him in a drunken fit of passion. It had confused him immensely. He vowed never to do it again. His life was his work; the mere topic of kissing and sex was very alien to him. As he'd experimented with Irene Adler's text tone, he realised that nothing which was typically sexual aroused him. Yet here he was, kissing his mousey haired pathologist acquaintance on her settee. A woman he'd known and ignored for years; suddenly, there was a reason to kissing. The way she bent under him, her nails dragging tenderly around his neck. The fact that one little thing such as kissing could make a person so submissive, as though all their inhibitions had simply left. He didn't like the fact he might lose his ability to think straight but he soon reasoned that Molly Hooper was no danger to him.

When he stopped kissing her, she looked up at him, eyes wide, slightly confused. Her mouth was parted, shining slightly. Her cheeks were flushed. They soon realised that they were also horizontal on the sofa; Molly underneath him, caged by his arms. His shirt sleeves were rolled up around his elbows. He didn't know when he'd done that, but there they were. One hand of Molly's was around his neck, while the other was on his hip. He didn't quite know what to do next. He'd watched those vulgar videos on John's laptop before out of curiosity, but had snapped it shut out of sheer disgust at how the woman's screams had been so false and American. Plus he didn't know if Molly wanted to do anything else. They lay there for a moment, their chests rising and falling deeply. Sherlock pondered; for years, he'd considered himself married to his work, sexual feelings were biological urges only given into on a regular basis by men with no willpower or other distractions. He wondered why he hadn't realised that the key to it all wasn't this woman with a whip and a sharp attitude; it was Molly Hooper.

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><p><strong>I hope there wasn't too much fluff. I don't really do fluff without dying inside; I just wanted to make it clear that Sherlock is still quite confused, but is comparing Molly to Irene. Obvs I'm a Sherlollian, so I wanted him to like her, but not simply like her. I wanted him to be confused slightly about liking her, because he doesn't really like anyone. Ah, I've mindfucked myself. Ignore me. Let me know what you thought.<strong>

**Explicit Sherlolly chapter next. You have been warned. (Very fun to write).**


	6. Pleasures

**So guys. Here it is. The chapter finally worthy of it's M-rating. Please be kind; we all know smut is fun, if not very awkward to write! I hoped to capture some of the awkwardness between them and stuff. All that needs to happen is Moffiss need to write this into the next season, and I'll be a happy Sherlolly bunny.**

**Enjoy and let me know what you think :)**

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><p><strong>P L E A S U R E S<strong>

Irene Adler walked though the flat naked and wet after using the shower. She let her hand trace along the wall and found her way to Sherlock's bedroom. She knew it was his by the stacks of books crammed into the bookshelf and the periodic table tacked to the wall. His bed was unmade, a small indented outline apparent in the sheets where he'd slept. She could smell his aftershave in the air, and picked the bottle from the cabinet. She sprayed it three times; standing arms outstretched she let the droplets land on her body, inhaling deeply. She then opened the wardrobe, her hand gliding along the clothes. A perverse feeling nestled in her stomach; a feeling of knowing that these clothes had touched parts of Sherlock Holmes's body that she was certain no other human had touched. Reaching in, she happened upon a purple shirt. Buttoning it around herself, she was pleased to see it hung just by her thighs, the sleeves rolled up by her elbows. She turned on her heel and climbed onto the bed, shifting between the sheets, ruining his imprint. With his scent around her, and his shirt gently over her curves, the woman fell asleep.

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><p>She coughed awkwardly and went to move her hand from his neck and hip, but he knitted his brow, looking a little scared as though he'd done something wrong.<p>

"What?" he asked, looking a little lost. Molly shuffled up in her seat, even though he was still kneeling between her legs on the sofa.

"I don't—I thought you…stopped." She answered, stammering slightly, not knowing whether or not he wanted to continue. Every sinew of her body wanted him to, so it came as a nice surprise when his mouth met hers again, this time with more passion and vigour. His hand left the settee and raked up through her hair, pulling her away every so often for a small intake of air. He wasn't quite sure what to do with her; he hated to admit it, but for once in his life he was clueless.

His hand found its way inside her blouse, gently touching the bare skin on the small of her warm back. Her hands left his body and she assisted him with the buttons on her shirt, surprisingly not blushing as it parted revealing a rather racy black bra. Sherlock found himself at her collarbone, teeth dragging across her chest. A small, short breath from Molly let him know he was doing well. The next thing she was shimmying out of her skirt. Sherlock's fingers shook and picked at his own buttons. Dressed only in her bra, knickers and blouse, still on her shoulders but open fully revealing her body, Molly pulled the detective towards her by his shirt, pressing her mouth against his again. The gentle scratch of his where his beard was coming through burnt her face, but she quite liked it.

He'd seen naked women before; on mortuary slabs, on John's laptop. Even Irene Adler, one of the most desirable women around he'd seen without a stitch of clothing on. Yet he preferred this; this air of mystery. He'd never really thought about naked women (or men really) before, but he decided as he looked down at the young doctor that he liked the fact she wasn't fully naked. Maybe later, he'd change his mind, he thought, but right now, those parts of her flesh he could see; her stomach, chest and legs, were more special than seeing the whole lot in one go. The closer she pulled him, the more he enjoyed feeling his bare chest stick to her skin. Mouth still attached he awkwardly brought his hand palm flat on her stomach, fingers tracing down the bones where her pelvis was. Slowly he moved his hand under the elastic of her underwear, parting her slowly, his fingers playing with her until a little breath emitted from her mouth when she realised what he was doing. She gripped him hard by the bicep, letting out a loud, yet breathy moan into Sherlock's mouth.

"That okay?" He asked, stopping for a moment, not knowing whether her moan was one of passion or discomfort. She nodded quickly, back arching against the sofa as he continued.

He tried not to show it, but he was secretly astonished, if not slightly proud that he was the one making her do this. He decided to move away from this small sensitive area between her legs, and graciously used his two middle fingers, pushing into her. Her warmth encompassed his hand, and he moved slowly in and out, his rhythm constant. She flung a hand across her face, her chest rising and falling faster. He worked up a rhythm and pushed harder, surprised when she moved her own hand down to touch that sensitive place again, the combination of both their hands inside her pants making Sherlock swallow, suddenly aware that his own erection was straining against his trousers. _This is bizarre_, he thought to himself. This rarely happened. He didn't know whether he should be embarrassed or proud.

Molly pushed against him, hips springing forward, bringing his fingers deeper into her. She felt the crest of an orgasm nestle in the lowest part of her stomach, one hand gripping hold of the sofa, while the other found its way to his neck. She pulsed around him, his face physically shocked, yet enjoying that this was how women climaxed. She let out a small cry, not quite as laboured as the text tone that Irene had given him. He could tell by the way she collapsed back down again, chest heaving, her face now serenely calm, that nothing would beat that moment.

"You okay?" He asked, holding her arm as she knelt. They were both on their knees on the sofa, face to face, their shirts open, mirroring one another. Her hair was messed, tussled where she'd rubbed against the chair. Slowly she placed her hand flat on his chest and pressed against him.

"Lay back." She instructed, tucking her hair behind her ears, "Please." Slowly he obeyed, head propped up on the cushion as Molly fumbled with his belt buckle, her long hair draping like a curtain down beside her shoulders. Even though he felt bad for looking, Sherlock's eyes caught sight of the way her breasts moved together, giving her cleavage as she fought with his belt buckle. He'd never really looked at a woman's chest before; men always raved about how great it was, but he never saw the attraction. Well, until now.

"You might have to give me hand." She said, almost laughing. She couldn't believe it. She'd almost forgotten about all the drama from the past few days in the heat of this moment, but, as he unbuckled his trousers almost as clumsily as she'd tried to, she noticed the photograph of Irene Adler on the coffee table. As he removed his trousers, she threw them across the room, causing the tea mug to spill all over the photograph. Tea leaked all over the woman's face, dying her skin a soggy mocha. The pair looked around, then, laughing, decided to ignore it.

She'd done it a few time, and every time she'd done it properly. It was something she had a lot of confidence in. She straddled his legs and drew her teeth down his chest, mouth resting just above his penis. Slowly, she let out a long hot breath looking up to see Sherlock staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide as though he was trying to fathom out how he'd got there. Then, without warning, she took him into her mouth, slowly, just the tip, before working her way down. A sharp hiss followed by a deep growl emitted from his diaphragm where her head was resting. She brought her hand up to the base of him, the lubricant of her saliva making it easy to work her way around his length. She felt his hand entangle itself in her hair, not pushing, just assisting the gentle motion of her head.

He'd never experienced anything like it before. He'd never been in a position where his mind came second to any other part of his body. The feeling of her burning mouth sliding down him brought that unfamiliar feeling in his stomach, like ten barking dogs on a tight leash waiting to be released. Normally this feeling signified the end to one of his few masturbating occasions, and his mind usually wandered to the case of the sticky aftermath of mess he'd have to clean up. All in all this feeling connoted nothing but dread. But right now, all he could think about was how ridiculously good she was at it and how well she hid her skills behind her demure and meek appearance.

"No, no Molly." He pulled at her hair. He didn't want to do it in her mouth. Even though his instincts were telling him to let go of the feeling, he reined it in and thought that it probably wasn't the most chivalrous thing to do. Molly sat up on her knees again and ran the back of her hand across her mouth. Slowly she peeled off her knickers, kneeling over him. He'd never done this before, yet he guided himself into her with such each and haste that it caught her by surprise. With her on top, she moved on top of him, his eyes bursting open as she began to move. He punctuated each beat of her rhythm with a groan or a hiss. Molly splayed her hands against his chest, hair curtaining around her head. Her own breathing erratic, she looked down. As she went to speak, Sherlock grabbed her by the hips, held her still and lifted his own hips, driving harder and faster into her. She reached for the sofa, the walls, anything.

"Oh..oh my God." She almost shrieked it. Sherlock had never had incentive like it. She came with startling volume, still moving in rhythm until Sherlock finally felt a dark, almost primal grunt emit from his throat, his release running down her legs soon after. With a sigh, she fell backwards to the opposite end of the sofa.

The pair laid in silence for a few minutes, both coming to terms with what they'd just done. Molly pulled the throw down from the back of her sofa. Their bare legs were pressed together, as they were top and tailed on the settee. She was the first one to speak.

"I…I don't normally do that." _Well done, Molly. All the awards for the worst post-coital conversation starter._ She heard Sherlock shift and realised he was reaching down for his underwear. Slowly he pulled them on under the cover.

"Do what?"

"Sleep with people straight away." She inwardly shuddered at the fact she'd used the word 'sleep'. Considering they'd both just seen each other stripped to their most primitive elements, she found it quite embarrassing that she couldn't say anything else. Sherlock obviously picked up on it.  
>"We haven't slept yet." He paused, as if he was thinking in the dark. "Do I leave now?"<p>

"Not if you don't want to." Molly hoped he wouldn't. She'd just given him a large part of herself and she didn't really want him to just disappear after it. Sherlock shifted again.

"No. I'll stay."

Molly considered asking him if he wanted to sleep in the bedroom, but they were both asleep within minutes, each, skin to skin on her sofa with each of them wondering whether the whole thing had been a dream.

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><p><strong>Next chapter written. Awkward as fuck, but will be posted soon. :)<strong>

**Love you all for reading, you delicious people, you.**


	7. Irene

**So here is the aftermath of the last porn chapter. Thanks again for the reviews; they seriously brighten up my day. I wanted to explore the whole Irene Adler side of things. I know Sherlock seems a bit of a prick in this chapter, but I suppose, he is a prick most of the time to Molly, so it's not OOC. A bit angsty and dramatic, but we all like a bit of drama. Anyway, thanks fot reading guys, :) I have the next chapter half written so there many be a gap between this one and the next while I decide where I go. As ever, ideas are welcome :) Just comment and let me know.**

** Happy Valentine's day, too guys. **

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><p><strong>I R E N E<strong>

Molly awoke to Sherlock buttoning his shirt, shaking his cuffs around as he ruffled a hand through his hair. He looked awkwardly at her as she woke up, unable to attain eye contact for longer than a millisecond. Molly felt about on the floor for her underwear, and, slipping them on under the cover, she sat up, blouse still unbuttoned with her bra on show.

"You going?" She asked, quietly, sounding a little wounded. Sherlock sniffed and spun around.

"Yes. John's been texting. Apparently he stayed at Lucy's last night."

"Is Lucy his girlfriend?"

"No idea." Sherlock inspected the dried tea stain on his trousers, catching Molly's eye as they both blushed an incredible shade of red as they remembered how the tea had spilt in the first place. Molly moved to her feet, collecting the sodden photo of Irene Adler in her hands.

"I'll probably see you at the hospital, then?"

"Perhaps." Sherlock said simply. He pulled his coat around his body, "I can let myself out. You might want to button up, there's an awful draught in here." He motioned towards her uncovered chest and brushed past her, letting the front door close with a slam. Molly fell back to the sofa and examined the stain on the cushions, closing her eyes. She didn't feel dirty, neither did she regret it. She always knew Sherlock wasn't the cuddle and make you breakfast kind of man. She should have been angry at him for leaving without so much as five words, but she couldn't muster the anger. It was too perfect. He'd given her that hope that she didn't need to be a feisty dominatrix to get Sherlock Holmes, like everybody seemed to assume. You could just be Molly Hooper.

She went to fetch the mug from the table, then realised that beside it there was a familiar looking mobile phone that wasn't hers. _Sod it_, she thought, _he'll have to wait for it._

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><p>Sherlock met John at a shop where they bought a few pieces Mrs Hudson had refused to get for them. <em>Landlady, not housekeeper.<em> Sherlock refused to carry the bag.

"Was the flat lonely last night then?" John asked, carrier bags cutting into his wrist as he fished for his key.

"Incredibly." He lied, walking into the flat. He lifted his nose to the air. He could smell his aftershave. It wasn't John; he was wearing his own. Sniffing again, he inspected the window. Open. He followed the scent, down the corridor, to the door of his bedroom. Softly pushing the door open, his eyes happened upon Irene Adler, curled up in his favourite shirt on his bed sheets.  
>"We have a client." He looked back towards John who was walking up the corridor with a bottle of wine in his hand. John sniffed.<p>

"What, in your bedroom?" he stopped beside Sherlock, "Oh."

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><p>"You've been here all night?" John asked, "All night long?"<p>

"Yes." Irene looked between the two men, a mischievous smile spreading across her lips, "Where were you two, then?"  
>"At a friend's." John snapped, unimpressed by her obvious attempt to make their friendship look suspicious. He looked curiously over at Sherlock, "Where were you?"<p>

"At a friend's." Sherlock coughed uncomfortably, "Helped yourself to my wardrobe, I see, Miss Adler."

"Very good; you can tell you're a detective." She smiled sarcastically and leant back confidently in his chair, tucking her legs up. The shirt hung off her curves, brushing just below her thigh.

"Wait you don't have friends…" John said from the corner. Sherlock and Irene broke their tense gaze and looked over at Doctor Watson who was standing, looking very much bewildered by the whole situation.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready for your lunch date with Lucky?"

"Lucy." John corrected. Before John could even ask how Sherlock might've known, Sherlock answered his unvoiced question.

"You wrote it in the calendar." Sherlock said nonchalantly, looking back at Irene, "See you later, John. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Doesn't leave much." John muttered, grabbing that god awful green coat from the back of the armchair. The doctor marched out the front door, obviously not content with not knowing Sherlock's whereabouts the previous night. Sherlock and Irene's gaze snapped back to one another as they heard the front door slam shut.

"And then there were two." Irene remarked, running a finger across the smooth skin on her leg, "So where were you last night?"  
>"Why are you here?" Sherlock ignored her question, rounding on her before settling in the sofa opposite.<p>

"I need a place to stay."

"Nice of you to ask first." Sherlock nodded towards the window, "Must have been a graceful entrance."

"You'd like to know." Irene smiled and leant forward. The shirt was open just enough for Sherlock to see her cleavage. He looked back up at her face. As with the ringtone, the idea of her wasn't erotic in the slightest. She was trying too hard.

"Not particularly." He answered truthfully, "But I suppose you'll be a refreshing change from John's company."

"Missing your boyfriend already?" She smiled a wicked grin and leant forward, the shirt starting to slip down her shoulder. "Are you not going to offer me a drink, dear?"

Sherlock ignored her first question and stood up, his eyes tearing away from this woman as he walked towards the kitchen. He also tried to ignore the 'dear' at the end. He wondered if it was acceptable to call a woman lecherous.

"Tea?" he enquired, reaching for the kettle.  
>"Wine, would be nice." She shot him a smile. Slowly she stalked across the living room with all the grace of a cat until she was standing behind him. He could feel her behind him, her breasts against his back. His eyes followed her hand as she brushed it down his arm.<p>

"Unless you want dinner?"

"It's half past two." He pointed out, stiffly.

"Time is not an issue." She stood behind him for a moment and then, after realising he wasn't going to surrender that easily, she left his side and took her glass of wine.

For hours that sat almost in silence, Sherlock playing with the strings of his violin. They said precious few words to one another the whole day. She attempted to use her charms on him, though he seemed to have some invisible force field up, repelling them like armour. She was textbook style; very little clothing, hair and make up dark and sultry. His shirt, supposedly chosen because purple is a notoriously sexual colour, the buttons around her chest strategically opened so he could see right down. Not that he looked. His mind wandered back to the previous night, where he'd been so engaged in Molly Hooper's chest. This woman, he could see, was trying so hard to make him want her, yet he didn't.

"Have you ever had anyone?" Irene asked from across the room. Sherlock stopped picking at the strings of the violin and clammed up. _Molly Hooper_. He cast his eyes across at her. "I'm sorry?"

"And when I say _had_," She leant forward, "I'm being indelicate."

All he could think about was Molly Hooper, down by his stomach. Molly Hooper; on top of him, crying out as her body gave into him.

"I…don't understand." He barely got the words out. Irene was on her knees in front of him in a fraction of a second, her eyes subconsciously dragging down his body like a lion mapping out an attack.

"I'll be delicate then." She touched his wrist, "Let's have dinner."

Sherlock moved his hand to her wrist. Her heartbeat; fast, her pupils growing, just like Molly's had. Only now he didn't want to lay the woman down on the sofa and make her scream. He wanted her leave him alone. She moved closer and he feared she might try and kiss him, or worse still, move her free hand to his lap. He swallowed.

"I'm not hungry."

"Good." She answered far too quickly, her teeth showing through her smile. She was almost feline in the way she moved, not unlike him, he noticed. Her hand crept over his thigh, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. She read this as a sign to go further, hand creeping higher until it stopped halfway up his thigh, her thumb brushing the inside of his leg.

"Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?" He asked slowly, trying to distract his attention from her hand moving higher up his leg.

"Oh Mr Holmes," Her face moved closer, until her lips were just short of his, "If it was the end of the world, the very last night." She paused, wondering, in this moment, if she could break Sherlock Holmes. _The Virgin_. "Would you have dinner with me?"

He swallowed. He could almost feel her lips on his, when suddenly they heard a bang downstairs.

"Too late." Irene whispered, looking slightly disappointed. Her thumb stroked a point high on the inside of his thigh.

"That's not the end of the world, it's Mrs Hudson."

_Wrong_. The door to the flat opened and Molly, eyes sparkling, bounded in, brushing snow off her jacket.

"Hope you don't mind me popping in, it's just you left your-" She stopped dead, eyes casting on the two figures entwined on the sofa. Her hand dangerously high on his leg, her mouth as though it'd just left his. His hand was wrapped around her wrist, just like it'd been with hers the night before. Molly cast her eyes over the woman, blurry with the threat of tears. It was _her_. The woman. Dressed in one of Sherlock's shirts and little else, her hair hanging loosely by her shoulders. The woman quickly stood up and stalked towards Molly, eyes raking down Molly's dowdy coat and limp hair.

"My you _are_ a pretty little thing, aren't you?" She said menacingly, lips splitting into a dangerous smile "I could eat you for breakfast." The two women stood face to face, Molly's sad frame hanging dejectedly while Irene posed sexily in Sherlock's shirt. It was as if she knew she was hurting the doctor, yet she continued; each bat of her long eyelashes a fist to the stomach. Sherlock stood and straightened his jacket.

"Molly Hooper, meet Irene Adler."

Molly looked at him, as though she couldn't quite believe what was coming out his mouth. His phone still in her hand, Molly felt the heat rise to her cheeks. _Air_, she thought, _need air_. Quickly she turned on her heel and sprinted down the steps, out into the street.

Irene Adler turned swiftly to face Sherlock, a content grin leaking over her face. Her lips formed into a natural pout as she inspected Sherlock's pale face, his eyes looking towards the door.

"Oh dear." Miss Adler smirked, moving closer to the detective so her body was brushing his, "Was it something I said?"

Sherlock Holmes looked down at her, unable to hide the disgust in his face. He roughly pushed her aside, whipping his coat off the back of a chair before following Molly Hooper down the stairs.

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><p><strong>I only have one thing to say; SORRY MOLLY FOR THIS CHAPTER. I love you, Molly.<strong>


	8. Arguements

**So the whole Irene/Sherlock thing comes to a head. It isn't resolved, but the next chapter will show you some Molly/Irene rivalry etc. This sort of builds up to it.**

**I just love bitch!Irene. I shall be adding more Sherlolly soon. Sorry for Sherlock still being an arse.**

**Enjoy. ALSO. Thanks for the reviews, they're making me very happy!**

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><p><strong>A R G U E M E N T S<strong>

Snow stuck to her hair, matting and wetting it until it hung in thick, unattractive snowy dreadlocks down her back. She marched as fast as her feet would take her along the street, the satisfying crunch of snow underfoot at every step pounding out the pressure. She heard the door to 221B slam, followed by the hastened sound of heavier footsteps crunching behind her. She felt his hand on her arm, but she tugged it away with startling anger and speed.

"Molly?" He shouted after her, his pace slowing so the gap between them spaced. She ignored him, carrying on a few more yards before he shouted again, "Molly!"

"What?" She snapped, spinning on her heel, face bowed into hard angles of anger, the like of which he'd never seen on Molly Hooper's face before. He realised that he'd chased her out the flat, but in honesty he didn't really know what to say to her. An apology didn't cross his mind; firstly because he wasn't the type of man to apologise, and secondly, he hadn't done anything wrong.

"Where are you going?" He asked, finally. Molly almost laughed; her hands dropped to her side in defeat. She went to turn around, but as she did so, he spoke again, causing her stop. She wished she wouldn't just surrender to his voice, but his voice almost had a biological control over her.

"What is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with _me_?" Molly stopped dead, facing away from him, "You know what, actually, there probably is something wrong with me. I must be the most stupid woman on the planet to do what I did with you last night."

"But you wanted to do it." The way Sherlock said it sounded as if it was half way between a question and a statement. Molly turned around slowly, her hair hanging before her face. She wondered whether he could see the glitter of tears threatening her eyes. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat and pushed them back, her nose stinging.

"I don't know." She answered, shaking her head, "I must be such an idiot to actually let you fool me into thinking that I stood a chance against her." She motioned towards his flat, and his head looked up towards the warm glow of 221B.

"What about her?" Sherlock stepped forward, looking slightly infuriated, "Why does everybody care about me and her so much?"

"Sherlock, you haven't got to act anymore." Molly looked up sadly from the floor, eyes wide and glossy like a lost puppy. "You haven't got to try and convince me that morally I'm a better person than her, or that I'm special; because I'm not."

"I don't understand." Sherlock rarely found himself saying those words, yet when he did, they came out slowly, as though he had many qualms in saying them.

"Yes you do." Molly looked up into the streetlight, hoping the glow of it would burn the tears away from her eyes. Little flakes of snow speckled her face. "Everyone thinks you're a man of mystery when it comes to love and women. You tried to make me feel so special last night; like I was the only one who truly got through to you, but really you're just an actor."

"So you think everything I said or did to you was an act, Molly?" His voice had a sharp edge to it, rather harsh considering the delicacy of the situation.  
>"I think you're a regular man." Molly said simply, "You just can't resist a better offer."<p>

Sherlock had once told Molly he can't tell what goes on in her mind. How true it was for all humans, then, for Molly honestly did not understand how wrong she was about his feelings for Irene Adler. Her words actually stung him; not the fact she was ripping his personality apart bit by bit, wrongly, he might add, but more by the fact she now considered him ordinary. She still thought he was a normal man, giving in to normal biological urges when it came to women.

"So you've seen something and made a conclusion?" He queried, hair quivering as he shook, "That's what you've done?"  
>"You do it too, Sherlock! Stop pretending you don't." She almost screamed it; in fact her voice reverberated off the walls around them, "That's what you do for a living."<p>

"Only difference is that my conclusions are always accurate." He countered smartly. The slap she delivered him was short and quick, not really hurting him all that much. The fact it was _Molly Hooper_ who was delivering the slap was the biggest shock to him. She felt guilty instantly afterwards; she even thought about saying sorry to him, though she didn't.

He'd made her out to be a fool; he'd tricked and deceived her into thinking she stood a chance. He'd made Molly feel like she was the one to crack the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes, and, for one night, it'd worked. She'd basked in the feeling of coming first out a long line of women. And now; it was clear that is was all a ruse. To Molly Hooper, a slap was the least he deserved. He placed a gloved hand to his cheek, his ice blue eyes blinking softly at her. Quickly she reached into her pocket, pulling out his mobile phone.

"You forgot this." She said quickly, "Don't worry; I didn't look through your messages or pictures."

"Molly, I-"

"I'm not interested." She sighed, turning back to face away from him again, "If everything you told me about that woman is true, then you both deserve each other." She quickly paced away from him, disappearing as she reached around five streetlights away. Sherlock stood, ankle-deep in snow, hand still cupping his stinging face.

From nowhere the sound of slow, sarcastic applause emitted and John Watson appeared like some film noir character, his unimpressed face in a pout towards his flatmate.

"Well. I don't know what was going on there, but it certainly didn't look like it was going to plan." He chirped up, "Come on then, what have you done now?"

"Been slapped across the face, evidently."

"By Molly Hooper?" John shook his head, "God, you must have done something wrong."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Sherlock sniffed sharply, "Can we go upstairs please. People might think I'm standing here in humiliation."

"You're not then?"  
>"Of course not." Sherlock slammed the door of 221B, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling when he realised Irene Adler was, of course still there; still in his shirt.<br>"Back so soon?" Her eyes drifted to John, "Good evening Doctor Watson."

"Still here?" John said, rather bluntly, cocking his head towards the glass of wine in her hand, "Making yourself at home, I see?"

"How was your friend?" Irene ignored John and smiled at Sherlock, "She seemed in a bit of a rush to leave."

"What the bloody hell even happened?" John chimed in, raising his arms in the air. Irene licked her lips and stood up and walked over to stand beside Sherlock, who shifted uncomfortably away from her.

"Molly Hooper walked in on Sherlock and I in an…" she let the next word slide off her tongue, grinning menacingly, "intimate situation." Before John could interject, Sherlock interrupted,

"Hardly intimate."

"Then why was she so jealous?" Irene ran her eyes down his body, "Pretty girl. Plain but pretty. Bless her, though. I always hate breaking hearts."

"Wait." John rushed forward, hands waving, "You two? She caught you two-"

"No." Sherlock interrupted harshly, "She didn't catch anything, did she, Miss Adler?" The woman just shrugged evasively in response.

"If you say so, dear." Irene's eyes flickered lustfully between the doctor and the detective. Slowly she lifted herself up from the sofa and sashayed across the room to stand beside Sherlock.

"Right boys, it's way past my bed time and I've had more than enough drama for one day." Ever so slowly she reached onto her tiptoes and planted her lips on Sherlock's face. His expression crumpled under her kiss. She stopped at the doorway, hand caressing the doorframe. "Come and join me soon, Mr Holmes." With a wink she escaped down the hallway to his bedroom.

John and Sherlock stood dumbly in the middle of the living room, John's mouth slightly open. After about twenty, long, drawn out seconds, Sherlock spoke.

"Will you please close your mouth?" As the doctor snapped it shut, Sherlock continued, "You have questions."  
>"You don't do things like that. We've talked about this before; you're married to your job."<p>

"Consider Molly a mistress, then." Sherlock stalked over to his chair, curling himself up on it.

"What about Irene?"

"What about her?" Sherlock stood at the doorway to the flat, "Molly misinterpreted a simple pulse reading."

"Oh, well that explains it." John shook his head and blinked, "Where are you going?"  
>"To bed."<br>"Your bedroom is down the corridor."

"Somebody is sleeping in my bed." Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

"Oh okay, Goldilocks, so where am I going to sleep if you're going to commandeer my bedroom?"  
>"Sofa?" Sherlock spoke as though John was being stupid for asking in the first place, "I didn't have the best night's sleep on Molly's sofa, and I happen to know you slept in Linda's bed last night instead of the li-lo. Congratulations, by the way."<p>

"Lucy." John muttered for the umpteenth time, "Irene won't be too happy."

"Oh you're more than welcome to keep her company if the mood takes you." Turning on his heel, Sherlock went to make a dash for the steps, but John's voice reeled him back.

"Oi!" John stood up and called him back like a schoolboy, "Sod. Off. I'm sleeping in my own bed; you can get yourself a blanket and sleep in here."

"You do realise I'm just going to put more dissected human parts in the fridge for this."

"Mrs Hudson won't be happy."  
>"I'll label them with your name."<p>

"Goodnight Sherlock." With that, John padded up the stairs, silence overshadowing the flat as he slammed his bedroom door.

Slowly, Sherlock Holmes crept down the corridor towards his bedroom, ever so slowly opening the door so the temperamental squeak at the hinge didn't scream out. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and, as he let himself into the bedroom, he tried to make out Irene Adler's sleeping figure. He was halfway across the room before he realised she wasn't in the bed, but that she was behind the door. As he reached for the spare blanket on the shelf, she slammed the door shut.

"Knew you couldn't resist it." She smiled. He couldn't see her but he knew she was smiling just by the tone of her voice. Sherlock felt his back hit the wall as she rounded on him in the darkness, cornering him against his own bedroom wall.

"Just getting a blanket." He said confidently, "No need for alarm."  
>"You've got a bed right here."<br>"Which you're sleeping in."

"I don't mind sharing."  
>"I don't mind the sofa." In the darkness, Sherlock could hear their breathing. In darkness, all his senses were suddenly alight. In the darkness even the touch of her hand made him jump.<p>

"Are you sure?" She asked, her hot breath by his neck. He was about to answer when suddenly she had him by the shirt, dragging him across the bedroom. She threw him onto the bed, straddling him. The springs creaked as she pinned him against the mattress, her face above his. She lowered her mouth onto his, hungrily kissing him, stopping after a few seconds when she realised he wasn't responding.

"Don't fight it." She whispered, one hand skilfully unbuckling his trousers.

"I don't need to." He answered. He felt her hand begin to clatter with his zip and, with that, he caught a hold of her wrists, holding them high above her head. She squealed playfully, her face evidently enjoying the way her body arched against him as he held her with his strong grip. Sherlock realised to her this was some sordid game he was merely playing along with. She tried to reach for him again, teeth nipping at him as he held her captive on his bed.  
>"Go to sleep." He hissed, throwing her ungracefully onto the bed sheets. Working his buckle back together he snatched a blanket from the bed and marched out the room. She sat up on the bed, slightly bedraggled, but still grinning her feline grin.<p>

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

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><p><strong>Naughty Irene and her sexual prowess. I do love Irene for her sexiness, that's why I add it in. Even though Sherlock doesn't appreciate it, I had to show it. I can't wait to write the IreneMolly scene for the next chapter. It's a dynamic I'm really interested in and that we didn't see in the show. Please review and let me know what you think/where you think it should go :)**

**Many thanks! x**


	9. Warnings

**Here is the Molly/Irene chapter I promised. I was interested to explore the dynamics. I find it quite nice that Irene is delusional, yet it's sad because her delusions are actually beginning to leak into real life and Molly believes them. NOT FAIR. This is an angsty chapter, one we can all feel sorry for Molly in. But I will make Molly happier in the next chapter, I pinky promise. This chapter goes back and forward, so sorry for any confusion. I think it's quite straightforward, but I am the author so...!**

**Let me know what you think and if it's working. I'm not sure if I lost Sherlock's character at one point, but it is hard when concerning Sherlock and love! :)**

**Thank you for all your support with the story! I've never felt confident with multi-chapters, but your kind words have made it so much easier!**

**Enjoy! x**

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><p><strong>W A R N I N G S<strong>

"Didn't think you'd be up so early." John commented as he pulled a mug out of the cupboard, "Tea?"

"No." Sherlock said bluntly. John assumed he meant to answer both questions with that one word and silently fixed himself a cup of tea before wheeling behind the detective to observe what he was looking at under the microscope.

"Is that a tooth?" John asked, squinting.

"Yes." Sherlock zoomed in some more and shuffled an inch away from the doctor. "A molar, to be exact."

"Ah." John sipped from his mug before sighing as he flopped down into his armchair, "So. Last night?"

"What about it?"

"You admitted to Molly being your mistress." John paused, "Want to elaborate?"  
>In all honesty, John expected Sherlock to reel off some embellished story of how he was just saying that to throw Irene off the scent. He wouldn't even have been surprised if Sherlock had gone back to his microscope and given him the silent treatment. However, Sherlock simply turned his head, not quite looking at the doctor. He spoke into the air, looking out the window.<p>

"I had sex with Molly Hooper." He said simply, "We had sex on her sofa, and then I slept there. Would you like me to elaborate any more?"

John wished he hadn't dug so hard; he'd asked for information and Sherlock had delivered far more than necessary. John's fingers fiddled idly with his mug and he nodded and shook his head awkwardly, as though he didn't know what he was doing.  
>"No." he paused, "I mean yes, I—uh. And that's…that."<p>

"Exactly." Sherlock pulled away from the microscope.

"You should tell Irene?"  
>"Tell her what?"<br>"That you slept with Molly." John placed his tea on the table, "Have you spoken to her this morning?"  
>"No." Sherlock answered, "Why should I? It was none of <em>your<em> business, let alone hers."  
>"She <em>is<em> sleeping in your bed. And she _has_ been flirting with you non-stop since she arrived." John paused, Sherlock not responding to these statements prompting John to fill the silence, "Go and see if she wants a cup of tea."

The look Sherlock gave was just impeccable and John soon realised he was stupid for even asking such a thing. In a huff, the doctor propelled himself from his chair, marching down the corridor. With one finger he knocked at the door to Sherlock's room.  
>"Miss Adler?" He stopped, "Irene? I was just wondering if you wanted some tea?"<p>

Silence.  
>"Are you decent? Well, I'm coming in anyway; I've seen enough of you to not care whether or not you're decent." John slowly opened the door, eyes raking the bed for her sleeping form. Nothing. The bed was perfectly made, Sherlock's purple shirt folded on the bedspread. There was a small square of paper in the middle of the bed, large bold black letters inked on the middle.<p>

_Will be back later. Call me if you still want dinner. IA x_

John gently set the note down on the bed.

"Sherlock." He called, his voice slightly high, "We have a problem."

* * *

><p>Molly answered the door in a torn t-shirt which barely reached her thigh, her hair in a messy bun on top of her head. She stood at her doorway, hands trying to pull at her t-shirt as her eyes glazed over the perfect woman on her doorstep. Stood clad in an ivory pencil skirt suit and box jacket was Irene Adler. Her feet were squeezed into ridiculously high Louboutins, her lips painted a shiny red. The woman stepped over the threshold before she'd even been invited in. Molly could do nothing but stare at her; she looked the very definition of class.<p>

"Molly." She greeted the young doctor as though they were old friends, a hint of expensive perfume following her as she walked in, "Nice to see you under less awkward circumstances."

Molly took a step back to drink in the woman, "Why are you here?"  
>"Friendly visit." The woman smiled, "Don't mind do you?"<br>Molly didn't have a response. Deep down she wanted to drag the woman by her hair out into the street and slam the door. However, even though she could feel her heart splitting inside her chest, she'd never been an aggressive woman, and she assured herself that she might be able to kill Irene Adler with kindness. Molly swallowed, "Would you like a drink?"  
>"Wine would be beautiful."<br>"It's half past eight in the morning."  
>"It's nice to start early." Irene looked very much out of place in the hallway. Her expensive clothing clashed hideously with the plain décor of Molly Hooper's house.<p>

"I have tea." Molly squinted at her, "That's all."  
>"I'll pass, then." Irene looked around the house, smiling to herself, "It was a flying visit anyway. Just for a little girly chat."<br>"What?" Molly stood .looking .like a teenager at the foot of her stairs. Hair a mousey brown;straggles hanging over her face. Her feet were covered in fluffy childish socks. Her legs a mere pink compared to Irene's golden glow. The woman looked flawless in comparison to the young doctor.  
>"You know; a girly chat." Irene moved closer to Molly, her hand brushing at her face. Molly felt herself stiffen under her touch. Irene's mouth twisted into a grin.<p>

"No need to be scared, Molly. I won't hurt you." She brought her lips closer to Molly's, "But I know what will."

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><p>"You don't even know where she is." John was hot on Sherlock's heels like a dog after his master as the detective quickly whipped on the purple shirt Irene had left on his bed. Even though he was in a rush to leave, Sherlock still felt his skin recoil a little as he buttoned up the shirt that Irene had been wearing. He could smell her in the fabric.<p>

"Have you got any money I can borrow for a cab, John?"

"I'm coming with you." John retaliated, snatching his coat from the hook.

"No," Sherlock plucked the doctor's coat from his hand and threw it onto the sofa, "you're not."

"Why?"

"Because it's nothing to do with you." Sherlock snapped, "It's to do with me, Irene and Molly."

"Shit, Molly." The penny suddenly dropped with John and he gasped audibly, "Irene will kill her."

"Irene won't touch her." Sherlock said confidently, "But she'll talk to her." He paused, hesitating at the doorway, scarf in hand, "Which is a great deal worse."

* * *

><p>Molly had never had a woman this close to her before. She could taste the woman's minty breath on her lips.<p>

"You know what will hurt me?" Molly repeated, confused. Irene's hand ran down the loose strands of Molly's hair, her eyes playfully dancing over the bare parts of the doctor's skin.  
>"Boys, Molly." Irene whispered, "Boys will hurt you."<p>

"What do you mean?"  
>"You know what; you are exactly my kind of girl." Irene ignored Molly's question. Her hand left Molly's hair and trailed over her collarbone. Slowly she let it run over her shoulder, down, skimming over the outline of her chest to her waist. "I should give you my number."<p>

"What do you mean boys will hurt me?" Molly repeated, this time more firmly, her hand batting away the delicate touch of Irene's hand. The woman let her teeth ride over her bottom lip; pearly whites biting down on her red lips.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"How will he hurt me?" Molly asked assertively. She hoped Irene couldn't see that this man had hurt her far more than she cared to remember. Too late.

"He already has." Irene stroked Molly's face with one hand, "I'm just warning you before you get yourself caught up in his little world again." Irene Adler paused before enunciating the next three words with brutal precision, "He is mine."

* * *

><p>His legs wouldn't stop fidgeting the whole journey. It seemed to take an eternity; Sherlock was sure Molly Hooper's house wasn't that far away. He didn't know why he was in the cab. He should have let Irene say whatever she wanted to say. Molly Hooper wasn't his girlfriend, and he knew it certainly wasn't his job to protect her. Yet, here he was. What annoyed Sherlock Holmes the most was that Irene Adler was so adamant that he was hers; that she <em>had<em> him. He knew she was probably telling this to Molly right that moment.

Sherlock was proud of the fact he belonged to no-one. Not Irene Adler, not Lestrade, not John Watson; nobody. He didn't belong to Molly Hooper either, he had to remind himself, but he still had to help her. She wouldn't stand a chance against a woman like Irene Adler. Quickly, Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and typed frantically as the car swerved around another corner. Hitting send, he hoped he wasn't too late.

* * *

><p>Molly felt the world suddenly collapse under her; her soul and heart being sucked into this vortex at her feet. This woman oozed everything a man could ever want; looks, elegance, class and confidence to boot. She caught a sight of the pair of them in the reflection of the window; Molly felt ashamed by her own mediocrity. The woman was right; Sherlock Holmes always was and always would be hers.<p>

"You can have him." Molly said sadly, "You win."

"Darling, there never was any competition." Irene laughed, "Although, I can see why he might have liked you, if he wanted to. Don't take offence, honey, but Sherlock Holmes takes a particular fondness to people who he can bounce ideas off of." The woman was still ridiculously close to Molly; far closer than Molly found comfortable.

"Take John Watson," Irene purred, "Sherlock could talk to him for days, only because John will nod along and lap up every word he says. I can see you're the sort of girl who'd do that too; especially for a man like Sherlock Holmes."

The subtle truth of this woman's words was like a slash of a blade to Molly Hooper. Each word a metaphorical cut to her heart.

"I'm much more of a challenge." Irene smiled, "Sherlock loves a challenge."

Molly knew this was true. Even though she'd done the unmentionable with Sherlock Holmes, truly, deep down, she knew he preferred a puzzle. Irene Adler was a puzzle he was yet to solve, and Molly would've wagered he was having fun trying to figure her out.

"I've almost cracked him before. He read my body like a book." Irene whispered, "But last night…last night I think me and Sherlock gave into our desire for each other. We were alone in his bedroom. We kissed. I can tell you _ache_ to know what it's like to kiss Sherlock Holmes."

Irene was teasing Molly; picking apart every thread of her being until she was emotionally naked. Molly's eyes flickered towards the settee; small scratch marks in the wallpaper above it where she'd clung to the wall in the throes of an orgasm. It was a reminder, albeit not a very comforting one, that she had once experienced Sherlock Holmes. At the time it was a beautiful thing, but now, she felt like just another notch on his bedpost. Another woman. Molly knew she could have spilled then and there. She could told Irene Adler all about their illicit one night stand on her sofa. She could have recalled every detail, from his aftershave to the taste of his breath as he kissed her, but two things stopped her. Firstly, she didn't think Irene Adler would believe her; Molly was quite aware she'd look like a stammering, lying teenager if she ever told Irene the truth. After finding out about Sherlock and Irene's apparent encounter in his bedroom the night before, Molly didn't feel much like humiliating herself again. Secondly, Molly was sure Sherlock wouldn't want anybody to know about their night, particularly this woman. He hadn't even mentioned it to Molly herself. So, with this in mind, Molly Hooper nodded.

"I will never know." She whispered, lying.

"I'll make sure you don't." Irene let her mouth brush slowly down Molly's jaw line, slowly along to the corner of her mouth. "Or I _will_ kill you." Irene's mouth pressed to the corner of Molly's lips. She pulled away swiftly, picking a pair of leather gloves from her bag.  
>"You understand, don't you, Miss Hooper?"<p>

Molly nodded silently in response. Irene sniffed and took a step towards the door, the glitter of her perfume billowing the air around her.

"Well, it was nice to have this little chat, wasn't it?" She pulled the handle of the front door open and posed in the doorway, "Have a nice day, Miss Hooper."

* * *

><p>Ten minutes after the woman left, Molly Hooper was sat cross legged in front of the floor length mirror in the hall way, her hair now out of its bun, careering messily down her back. There was a perfect lip imprint of Irene Adler's rouge lipstick on her lip; a complex yet burning symbol of defeat. Her mobile phone buzzed from the floor beside her and she reached out to it, heart <em>still<em> jumping at the sight of his name.

_Don't listen to a word. I'm on my way. SH._

She snapped the phone off, swallowing as she looked at her pitiful reflection in the mirror. Just as she was about to give in and go back to bed, there was a knock at the door. She could make out the dark coat behind the frosted window. She wanted to ignore it, perhaps curl into a ball on the floor or settee. But instead, like a supernatural force was pulling her, Molly Hooper reluctantly opened the street door.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm so sorry for the constant back and forwardness and I am SO SORRY for the angst. Angst hurts. I promise so much that there'll be happier times in the next chapter. Let's be honest, we couldn't have a love triangle story without some angst. Also, so sorry about any continuity errors (I sat at work today kicking myself for some I remembered from the previous chapter. I tried to slyly rectify them in this chapter. Did anyone spot them?) Also for any spelling mistakes. I'm just about to go to bed, but I really wanted to write a new chapter. Oh and sorry about the length of this chapter. I didn't realise it was so bloody long.<strong>

**Anyway, nice chapter next I promise.**

**Thanks for reading :)**


	10. Biology

**As promised a nicer chapter. Sherlock being less of an arse, really. I was really interested by the commentary on aSiB when they said how interesting they found it that Sherlock could dilute love down into something as simple as biology. I thought I'd play on that. I know I've posted this chapter quickly, but I don't know how quick the next one will be! :) I have a sort of idea where the story is going, but as ever, please give me your idea's/thoughts :)**

**Many thanks for your reviews etc. It means the world!**

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><p><strong>B I O L O G Y<strong>

"Where is she?" Sherlock barrelled into the house, stopping in the middle of the hallway as Molly moved quickly aside to let him pass by.

"You've missed her." Molly said quietly, "She left about ten minutes ago." Sherlock reeled back to Molly, his eyes scanning over her pretty, make-up-less face. Slowly he raised a hand to her cheek; Molly's breath tangled in her throat, but released in a disappointed rasp when his thumb traced over the small stain on her lip. He wiped off the remnants of Irene Adler's lipstick and looked with concern back to the young doctor.

"She kissed you?" He asked, rubbing his fingers together so his fingertips stained a dark red. Molly looked towards the floor and tucked her hair behind her ears.

"She warned me-"

"To stay away from me." Sherlock finished, looking about the room.

"I think you should go." Molly whispered, "If she finds out you're here, she'll kill me."

"I'm allowed to be here." The detective countered, "I am not attached, in any sense of the word, to Irene Adler."

"She seems to think you are." Molly answered, taking a seat at the foot of the stairs. She paused before continuing, "She told me all about your night last night in her bedroom."

Sherlock's eyes danced across the room, before darting back to Molly with startling speed. "What?"

"You and her, on the bed." Molly sighed dejectedly, "She told me everything. How you're hers."  
>"I'm nobody's." Sherlock said stiffly. He moved forward so he was facing Molly on the steps. Molly felt her heart drop a little behind her ribs; if he was nobody's, then he'd never be hers. She shooed the thought away. Yet there was some sort of bittersweet edge to the fact he'd never be Irene Adler's either.<p>

"Shouldn't you be trying to find her?"

"No." Sherlock snapped, "Why should I?"

"I don't know." Molly swallowed, "You came here to find her I assume."

"Always assuming." Sherlock muttered, "She's really got to you, hasn't she?"

"No." Molly lied, fiddling with the fluff on her socks. Sherlock knelt down so he was on the same level as Molly.  
>"She makes things up." He said softly, "She is delusional. She see's what she wants to see and makes it true. Everything she thinks she sees, she makes up here." His fingertip lightly met the point on Molly's head where her hair met her forehead.<p>

"So she's sick?" Molly asked, "She's mentally ill?"

"Put it how you want; none of what she says is true."

"So everything she said about you two—last night, it was—uh." Molly tripped over her words, cursing herself as her face flushed a violent red. Sherlock sniffed and looked towards the living room.

"She forced herself upon me." He admitted. By the subtle jolt in his voice, Molly could tell he was neither happy nor confident in saying that. For a man to admit a woman had over powered him was humiliating in the first place, but even more so for a man as proud as Sherlock Holmes. "She took advantage of a darkened room. She kissed me, probably just as she kissed you. She embellished it and made it into a story that she even she believed."

Molly found some comfort in this. Even though it was morbid that she should find solace in the fact Irene Adler was mentally deranged, she still felt rather satisfied. She wondered if it made her a bad person. Then a new, strange thought occurred to Molly Hooper. She wondered whether she had imagined everything between her and Sherlock. Whether she'd perhaps done the same thing as Irene Adler and made it all up in her head. It wouldn't be such a big step. Sherlock had never said anything about it.

"No. Molly." Sherlock piped up from nowhere, shattering Molly from her daydream.

"What?"

"You didn't imagine it." He said, standing up. He slowly walked over the wall where Molly's fingernails had scratched away some of the wallpaper the other night. His hand played with the loose bits of paper. "Us. The other night."

She went to ask him how he'd read her mind, but he interrupted before she could get the words out.

"Delusional people rarely think themselves delusional. It's obvious you just began to doubt yourself. Don't worry. It did happen; you're not mad." He squinted at the wall, "You might want to get this re-papered."

"I have been meaning to get it done." Molly stood up and joined him, their eyes not moving from the little tears of wallpaper, "Maybe this is some incentive."

"I'm guessing short, unfiled nails. Purple nail polish." He inspected the wall, "You previously dislocated the smallest finger on your right hand; it's still a little out of shape."

"You're just showing off, now." Molly smiled, looking at her hands. He'd guessed this all from the scratches she'd left on the wall. Everything he'd said was spot on. Sherlock sniffed.  
>"I've been bored lately." He coughed uncomfortably. Molly perched precariously on the edge of the arm of her sofa.<p>

"Do you regret it?" She didn't actually realise she'd said that until it was too late, "Oh, God. I didn't mean to say that, like…oh."

"No." Sherlock said simply, "Do you?"

"Of course not." She said a little too quickly. "I mean I did yesterday when I saw you two-" She cut off. "Yesterday." She suddenly remembered, "I saw you two together." In the heat of the moment, Molly had almost forgotten she'd caught Sherlock and Irene at his flat when she'd returned to give him back his phone.

"I was taking her pulse." Sherlock reached over and grabbed Molly's wrist again, "Like this. Remember?"  
>"You did the same thing to me."<br>"Only things progressed a little further with you and I." Sherlock's forefinger traced the line of blue veins up Molly's arm. It wasn't sexual, neither was it flirtatious; if anything, Molly felt he was doing it absent-mindedly. Yet she still struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. Slowly he pulled his arm away.

"Why do you take pulses?"

"Because biology gives away much more than people care to." Sherlock answered crisply, "It gives away the most primitive and personal feelings. Fast pulse, flushing, dilated pupils; they tell you a lot about how a person feels inside. Simple chemistry. Human's are like books to read."

Molly observed the way he said that; as though 'humans' didn't include himself. He spoke of people as though they were something alien. He broke down the most deep topics such as love into science. Molly suddenly had an insight into how his mind worked and it gave her an idea.  
>"Would you like a drink?" She asked unexpectedly. "You look thirsty."<p>

"I'm fine."

"Come on let's get you a glass of water, or something." Molly stood abruptly so she was facing his chest. Tilting her head she nodded towards the kitchen. She half-wondered whether he'd stay in the living room, but as she left she felt his presence close behind her. In the kitchen she fixed a glass of water and held it out to him. As his hands closed around the glass she took the opportunity to slip her hand up to his wrist, her fingers delicately placed on his pulse point. It was risky and she knew it. She felt his heartbeat thud against her fingertips. Suddenly the beat intensified and quickened, thumping erratically against her skin. She looked up at him; her wide, dark eyes glittering. The blue of his eyes had shrunk as his pupils widened, a shimmer sweat apparent by his collar.

"You can trust me. I'm a doctor." She whispered, hoping to soften the mood with some humour. Without a word, he placed his glass on the counter, her hand still attached to his wrist. He slowly pushed her back against the counter, her back arching against the work surface. His coat was unbuttoned, long and brushing against her bare skin. His free hand rested on the highest part of her thigh, the smooth skin of the outer part of her leg a welcoming warm against his cold hand. She let go of his wrist when he kissed her, her hands finding the edge of the counter behind her. Sherlock bent his head downwards, his teeth running along Molly Hooper's lip. With ease, his hands found the back of her legs and he hoisted her effortlessly onto the cabinet, so she was perched on the edge of the counter. Her legs fell either side of his body and he slotted like a missing piece between her bare legs. His hands ached to release himself from his trousers, perhaps tug at the small pair of pants that Molly was wearing under her t-shirt. Only because he felt like exploring that dormant part of his being once more. But, instead, he reeled back, his lips leaving Molly's with a wet click.

"We can't, Molly." He breathed, trying to shift his growing arousal into the waistband of his trousers under his coat. Molly looked somewhat disappointed, her legs crossing in frustration.

"Fine."

"We've got to find Irene Adler." Sherlock pulled her down from the counter, "Go and get some clothes on."

"Wait, what do you mean, 'we'?" Molly stumbled, confused, after him. Sherlock stopped for a moment, considering the next words he was to say.

"Molly I need your help."

"Me?" Molly paused at the threshold to the kitchen, "When do you ever need _my_ help?"

"Because," He pulled a pair of jeans from the washing basket on top of Molly's tumble drier and threw them to her, "You're the only person I know who can stop Irene Adler."

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><p><strong>I would like more M-rated Sherlolly before the story ends, but I didn't think it'd be appropriate in this scene. Sherlock doesn't strike me as the kind of man who'd have sex when there was a caseemergency afoot. Maybe later, though ;) Was this nicer than the last chapter? Less angst and more kissy kissy Sherlolly. Haha.**

**Thanks for reading, will hopefully update soonish :)**


	11. Dinner

**Hey guys. The response to this story so far has been amazing. I think the end is in sight, though. This chapter was by far the hardest to write. I have had an idea of certain things I wanted to happen, but writing them without making it VERY dull and loosing continuity was difficult. It is an odd chapter, but I'm open to critisism and opinions. I don't think people would expect the twist.**

**ANYWAY. Thanks for reading. Please excuse the bouncing between characters. :)**

**Much love.**

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><p><strong>D I N N E R<strong>

Irene Adler was in a cab to nowhere when her phone vibrated. A wicked smile broached her face as she read.

_Let's have dinner. – SH_

Her fingers hit the keys with quick precision and she ran her tongue over her lips hungrily awaiting her reply. After she sent the message, a reply came within seconds.

_Be there in half an hour. – SH._

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><p>"Are you texting her?" Molly scampered to keep up with the detective, "What are you saying?"<p>

"I'm asking her to dinner."

"We're going for dinner?" Molly asked, confused. Sherlock's eyes flickered towards the doctor in a plain white vest and jeans. Her hair was out, not brushed, hanging over one shoulder. She was pulling on an old cardigan as they hastened down the road.

"Of course not." Sherlock said dryly, "Hail a cab, would you." His phone vibrated in his hand. An address flashed up on the screen and his mouth tweaked to the side in a twisted smile. The very promise of sex had brought Irene Adler to her knees. How ironic for the dominatrix. Molly and Sherlock bundled into a cab, Molly's eyes wide and glossy as she looked over at the detective. Sherlock barked the address at the driver and averted his gaze back to the young doctor.

"So." She said softly, "Are you going to tell me what I've got to do?"

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><p>Irene Adler awaited the doorbell with anticipation. She'd chosen a simple, yet sultry black lingerie set worth a small fortune in US dollars. She was wearing her trademark heels. The house was owned by a client who owed her a favour. It was a lush terraced flat on the edge of St James' Park, impeccably furnished for all manner of illicit affairs. There was a knock on the door. Irene laid back on the bed, arms resting on black cushions.<p>

"The door is open." She called, slowly bending her leg. She wished she was Sherlock Holmes just so she could see this pose. Her heart caught in her throat as she heard the footsteps on the outside of the door. Though, instead of the tall detective in his black coat entering, Molly Hooper appeared, hands wringing in front of her stomach.

"Hello."

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><p>He'd briefed her on what she was to do. He'd assured her he'd be just outside the door if anything went pear shaped. <em>Very reassuring<em>, Molly thought. The plan went against every instinct in her body. Even though she trusted him, she still felt a stab of terror streak through her when she walked into that bedroom. Intimidation didn't come close to describing how she felt when she saw Irene Adler strewn across the bed sheets in next to nothing, her long, perfect body rippling in anticipation.

"Hello." She wanted to sound confident, but the word came out almost strangled. Irene Adler sat bolt upright, blue eyes sparkling in what Molly read as anger.

"Molly." Irene's face split into a darker smile, "What a surprise."

"Were you expecting someone else?"

"I was expecting someone over for dinner."

Molly eyed Irene's choice of attire; dinner obviously had an entirely different meaning in Miss Adler's vocabulary.

"I don't think he's coming." Molly took a deep breath, her eyes flickering across the room to see whether there was any sign of a weapon Irene Adler might use. She could feel her heart hammering with fear inside her chest.

"Really?" Irene feigned surprise, encircling Molly like an animal rounding on its prey, "You know that?"

Molly had the words ready to say; they were dancing on the tip of her tongue. She felt her stomach lurch as she let them go.

"He's full." Molly's words came out effortlessly and fluently, which surprised both women, "He's already had dinner; with me."

A bitter silence hung between the women, their eyes latched on to one another's gaze. Molly half expected Irene to lash out; slap her, or tear at her with claws like a woman possessed. But instead she just cocked her head, looking at Molly.

"You?" Irene breathed, "You and Sherlock Holmes?"  
>"It happened." Molly stepped forward, confidence building as she continued, "It happened and you needed to know."<p>

"Nice try." Irene tried to smile, though it was obvious her confidence was cracking, "Sherlock would never sleep with just anybody." Her words were aimed to hurt, yet Molly felt them repel from her. They didn't hurt because Molly knew she _had_ slept with Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly whatever Irene Adler said didn't hurt her.

"I'm not just anybody, though am I?" Molly had moved nearer to Irene, suddenly realising something, "I'm the winner." Irene looked at her with pride.

"The kitten has claws." Irene growled, still smiling. Her smile ceased quickly, "Put them away, darling, Remember what I told you; you'll get hurt. You're a kitten trying to fight a lion. I suggest you back down before this get's bloody."

"You're lying to yourself." Molly continued, not missing a beat, "You're making it all up. You've made it all up."

Irene bit down on her bottom lip, hard enough for it to hurt, but not quite hard enough to bleed. Molly swallowed, looking up at Irene who towered over her in her heels. The skinny doctor tugged at her vest.

"I'm warning you, sweetheart."  
>"You think Sherlock loves you, but he doesn't." Molly blurted, shaking her head, "You're deluded. You're making it all up."<p>

"Is that the best you've got?" Irene laughed loudly in the doctor's face, "You're going to have to try harder if you want to fool me, Miss Hooper."

"All those things you think you saw; they were all in your mind." Molly looked up at the ceiling, "And for a moment you almost convinced me they were real."

"You really think Sherlock Holmes could resist me?" Irene's face was close to Molly's now, her red lips inches from hers. "You think he'd give up _me_ for a mousey doctor who cuts up bodies all day long?"

"Why didn't he give in when you tried to seduce him at his flat then?" Molly probed, "Why didn't he fall to his knees when you asked him to dinner in the kitchen? Why didn't he take you when you were naked in front of him? Why didn't he surrender when you tried to kiss him on his bed?"

"How do you know all this?" Irene Adler was suddenly on the defensive, her insecurities leaking like a bucket with holes, "How do you know about that?"

"Sherlock told me. He told me because…we trust each other." Molly realised she was lying slightly, though it was working. Sherlock had given her this ammunition only minutes earlier before they'd arrived, and, to Molly's surprise, it was puncturing Irene's armour. The woman visibly deflated, her eyes glossing.

"None of your attempts ever worked." Molly said, slowly, "Not because he was playing hard to get, but because he was never interested."

It was like telling a child that the tooth fairy didn't exist, or giving somebody book vouchers in an engagement ring box. The disappointment was evident as Irene's face crumbled. She didn't cry, but everything about her being broke apart. For the first time, Molly Hooper felt sorry for the woman. The penny suddenly dropped for Irene Adler. The reality slowly leaked into her mind, and her face flooded with acceptance. She honestly had no clue what she was doing. Molly suddenly realised exactly why she'd been called in to do this.

Sherlock would only have fuelled Irene's passion. Molly was a shy, mousey woman who Irene saw as an easy target. For Irene to see Molly suddenly become this figure of confidence was enough of a culture shock to snap her out of her delusional ways. It was working, yet Molly Hooper was unsure of how the woman would react to such a shock.

"I've never loved a man." Irene Adler whispered to Molly, eyes fixed on her own flawless form in the mirror. "I've only ever loved women."

Molly narrowed her eyes at their reflection. She wasn't expecting Irene to be so deep, let alone reveal her sexuality.

"I'll sleep with both; cater to the whims of both sexes for pleasure, but love…my love has only ever gone to women." Irene stood shoulder to shoulder with Molly, "Until Sherlock Holmes."

"I think you were just confused," Molly tried to soothe her. "You're very similar, you and him. You just misread him."

"What was it like?" Irene asked, quietly, "What was _he_ like?"

"What I thought he'd be like for five years." Molly admitted, "Awkward and strange. Afterwards, there's a void, as though it meant nothing. It's not malicious; it's just the way he is. I don't think I expected any different."

"Where is he now?" Irene sat on the bed.

"Outside."

Molly twisted the doorknob, Sherlock behind it, eyes darting between Molly and the woman. Molly nodded silently and let him inside. Irene was on her feet as he entered, eyes threatening to cry. She moved closer to Sherlock Holmes, slowly, as though he was an animal which may bite. Her hand reached out, fingers gently stroking his face. Molly stood at the sidelines, eyes buried deep in this act with subtle confusion.

Pricking up onto her tiptoes, Irene ever so softly placed a kiss to Sherlock Holmes's face, "You are the most amazing man I've ever met."

Sherlock looked down awkwardly, his hand moving to the spot where she'd kissed him.

"But sadly, you're just not my type." Irene glanced a knowing look over at Molly as Sherlock glanced between the women confusedly, unsure what had been said to spark this reaction from Irene Adler. Sherlock took a deep in-breath and looked over at Molly.

"I'll be outside." He turned and left the room leaving the two women alone again.

Molly looked towards the door, "I'm so sorry, Miss Adler."

"Why are you apologising?" Irene shook her head, "You should hate me."

"I did." Molly reminded her, "But I've decided nobody is completely evil."  
>"I know one or two people." Irene commented, moving closer, "You did something heroic, Molly. You told the truth. You faced every fear just to save Sherlock Holmes."<p>

"Sometimes you do silly things when you're in love."

"I said I'd kill you." Irene squinted, "Yet here you are."  
>"I'm not afraid of death, I see it every day." Molly said quickly, "I was more scared of losing one of the only people who ever meant anything to me, though. That's really pathetic to say."<br>"He'll be waiting." Irene moved her hand to Molly's face. She looked the young doctor in the eyes then let her lips meet hers. Molly opened her eyes wide and saw that Irene had hers squeezed shut, Irene's lips savouring the taste of her own. Molly wondered whether Irene was enjoying this more than she should be. The kiss was passionate, lasting long enough to be considered too long, but not long enough that Molly needed to use physical restraint against the woman. Molly felt her face flush red hot when Irene pulled away.  
>"I...I should go." Molly stammered for the first time since she arrived. Irene even opened the door for her, leaning against the doorframe.<p>

"Just ask Sherlock if you ever want my number, Miss Hooper." Irene called after her, as she hurried down the stairs, as fast as her feet would carry her.

* * *

><p><strong>Told you it was odd! I didn't want to just forget the fact Irene was gay in the BBC version. It seems pretty pivotal in explaining her 'love' for Sherlock. I always saw it as Irene never really 'loved' Sherlock in the typical sense; I think she was just amazed by him, and found him relatable as they're very similar. The kiss between Molly and Irene is not supposed to be femslash, just more closure on the whole situation. Unlike the kiss she gives her before, this one is more intense. I dunno.<strong>

**Anyway, I'll be writing more Sherlolly before the story ends. So let us dance in the M-rating. :)**

**Obligada. x**


	12. Caring

**Basically I had no idea where to go with this chapter. I wanted more smut, and I've rewritten it about a thousand times. I know it's not perf, but it was the only time I could put a tad more smut in :) I still want Sherlock to be asexual; the whole experience with Molly is merely an experience. I'm not into the whole Sherlolly relationship thing. I think this chapter is the realisation for Molly that it's not gonna be a relationship ting. But it's not disheartening, so don't worry.**

**Be warned, there's smut ahead. Smashed glasses and Petri dishes. Do enjoy!**

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><p><strong>C A R I N G<strong>

Sherlock stood with his back to the door, head resting against the wood as he looked up at the ceiling. He waited for the sound of commotion; his cue to break and stop the fight. But there was nothing. He'd told Molly what to say.

_Molly, you need to tell her what happened with us._

_Why me?_ She'd asked.

_Because she won't expect it from you._

_I don't know if I can. I don't even know how to say it. Why can't you do it, Sherlock?_

_Because it needs to be you. She needs this. It'll be her shock._

_What will she do to me?_

He couldn't answer her last question. He could have lied, sure, but for some reason he didn't answer her. Looking back on that, Sherlock was surprised Molly actually set foot in that bedroom. Most girls would have run a mile at the thought of having Irene Adler as an enemy. Molly didn't seem the type of girl to be brave, yet there she was in the bedroom, facing the most complex of women. He moved closer to the crack in the door, wondering at what point of the conversation the two women were at. From behind the wood he heard Irene's voice.

"What was _he_ like."

"What I thought he'd be like for five years." He heard Molly say, her voice barely above a whisper, "Awkward and strange." She paused "Afterwards, there's a void, as though it meant nothing. It's not malicious; it's just the way he is. I don't think I expected any different."

Sherlock backed away from the door, rolling his eyes. He almost wished he could forget hearing something. He decided not to eavesdrop anymore for fear of hearing things he didn't want to hear. He didn't like listening to personal things; particularly personal things concerning him. If somebody loved him, they loved him in secret; it was an unwritten rule with Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't a personal person and he wasn't willing to start being one now. Minutes passed before the door opened, and Molly silently beckoned him in with a nod. The next minute went by in a flash of confusion.

Irene touching his face.

Irene kissing his face.

Irene telling him he was amazing.

Irene telling him he wasn't her type.

Then he left. He waited downstairs, stopping at the mirror in the hallway to rub the trace of Irene's lipstick off his face. His hand wiped across his cheek, dispersing the red stain. It didn't take much longer before he heard the hurry of Molly's feet on the steps, her small frame bounding down the steps with terrific pace.

Sherlock had to grab her to stop her running straight past him. It was if she didn't even see him there, his touch causing her to shriek a little in surprise.

"What's your hurry?" he asked, pulling her into the light of a crystal chandelier hanging high above their heads.

"Can we just go?" Molly asked, the back of her hand rubbing over her mouth. Sherlock leant forward, his fingers finding the remainder of the stain that Molly had missed on her lip.

"She kissed you again?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Molly opened the street door, steaming to the kerb, her eyes scanning the horizon for a cab.

"What did she say to you?" Sherlock asked, rounding on her, his gloved hand flicking out effortlessly to hail the next taxi. Molly ran a hand through her hair and pulled her tattered cardigan further around her body.

"Nothing." Molly sniffed, "She doesn't love you anymore, that's what all this was about wasn't it? Job done."

"It was that simple?" Sherlock asked cynically, knowing full well that the answer was no. As a cab pulled up, he followed the young doctor inside. Molly went to open her mouth to say her address, yet Sherlock interrupted before she could speak.

"Baker Street, please."

* * *

><p>Molly Hooper wanted to go home. She wasn't used to this much drama in her everyday life. She'd been dragged into this mess by Sherlock Holmes and, even then, she knew he still wouldn't love her as much as she loved him. She'd put herself on the line for his sake, and it was only as Irene Adler kissed her that she realised that Sherlock would probably never realise how much she'd done for him. But, instead, here she was in his flat feeling slightly out of place. He hung his coat on the back of a chair and moved the violin from the other armchair so there was room for her.<p>

"She wants _you_ now, doesn't she?" Sherlock spoke first facing the window. Molly looked embarrassedly down at the floor. She was thankful he was facing the window so he couldn't see her face.

"She doesn't know what she wants." Molly answered.

"Evidently." Sherlock spun on his heel. He didn't really know what to say to the young girl. He'd never brought a woman back to his home before, so the protocol was very new to him. "Do you want a drink?"

"No. I want to go home."

"You can go if you like." Sherlock said quickly, motioning towards the door, "Unless there's something you wanted to say?"

Molly stood silently for a minute, feeling the whirr of emotions and words pulse about inside her. There was always so much she wanted to say to Sherlock Holmes, yet she never had the courage to say anything when she was around him. But now, she realised he was in her debt, and perhaps she'd never get a chance to speak her mind to him again. With a deep breath she let the dam burst.

"Listen, I did everything you've asked me to do." Molly sighed, feeling the rush of emotions burst from her stomach, "For as long as I can remember I've done things for you. I've put my job on the line letting you have access to the lab and to bodies in the morgue and for what? Not even a thank you. And now…well I put myself on the line. I didn't ask to be dragged into all this, Sherlock. I've done all you've asked and now I just want to go home and forget all about it."

"You did have sex with me." Sherlock pointed out.

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"Well, you had your suspicions about Irene Adler and myself, yet you still had sex with me." Sherlock moved a little closer to her, "And even after she came to your house and threatened you, you still kissed me in your kitchen this morning." Sherlock paused, "I didn't drag you into any of that; you did that yourself."

Molly didn't have a response to this. She _had_ slept with him and kissed him amidst all the Irene Adler drama. She couldn't help it. She could blame her hopeless emotions; she could say that she loved him too much to ever have given up the opportunity to sleep with him, but she realised his point remained the same. She had, albeit only partially, gotten herself into this mess.

"You really think it meant nothing?" His question came from nowhere, confusing the young doctor. She cocked her head, her hair dramatically tipping over her shoulder. _What the bloody hell is going on about now?_

"What?"  
>"Awkward and strange." Sherlock continued, his blue eyes sparkling as he moved closer to her, "How did you put it…a <em>void<em> afterwards?"

Molly felt her heart jump to her throat, strangling her words. All she could manage was weak "oh" in response.

Sherlock was standing right in front of her, obviously awaiting a response. She'd never felt so embarrassed; she didn't give it a thought that he might have heard that.

"You did leave in rather a hurry." She tried to reason.

"I came back this morning." He reminded her. His eyes were fixed on hers, the clash of her brown ones on his blue. She shuffled backwards a little into the kitchen, his step perfectly in time with hers.

"Why do people always think I don't care about things, Molly?"

"Do you?"  
>He didn't know. He always knew things, yet with Molly Hooper, he honestly had no clue. She meant more to him than most people did, but whether or not he cared about her was a different matter. Molly looked down, hurt by his hesitancy. Even though it was morbid, Sherlock found himself thinking about the times somebody had held a gun to John Watson's head. That feeling of anger that bubbled inside his stomach at the thought of his friend dying often at his expense. He thought the same about Molly. The thought of something happening to her because of him made the same rage build inside.<p>

He guessed that's what caring was.

He looked down and realised his hands were moving towards her wrists.

She had her back against the island in the middle of the kitchen, its corner pressing into her skin. His mouth blindly found hers and his hands found the wooden counter behind her. She leant back, his body arching into hers as they kissed, about five Petri dishes clattering to the floor as she swept her hand back clumsily. They broke apart at the noise, her face blushing as she looked down at the mess she'd caused. She expected him to storm off in a temper, the moment ruined, but instead he let his eyes glaze over his experiments all over the floor. She waited with baited breath.

"I'll pick them up." She whispered. She went to move, but he grabbed her, picking her up by the waist, her legs wrapping around his hips in a desperate bid to not fall. He sat her on the counter, a plethora of science equipment strewn around her. Sherlock roughly pushed it all aside so she had room on the counter. He didn't know where this instinct had come from. He didn't want her to go home. He didn't want her to leave. He wanted to prove that she mattered to him. Much more than she'd ever know. He didn't love her; love was something he didn't do. He cared, and this was the only way he could think to show her.

Molly knew he didn't love her. Sherlock Holmes didn't love. All these years she'd longed for him to love her, but now she realised it was never going to happen. He'd love his cases more than he'd ever love her. But he _cared_ for her and she realised that was enough.

Her jeans were on the floor within seconds, Sherlock's trousers unbuckled and unzipped so they hung loosely on his legs. He didn't know what to do. The first time they'd had sex it was a partial experiment; unplanned. This time he knew what he'd be getting and, even though it was a pleasurable experience the first time, he had a niggling thought that maybe the novelty would have worn off. Molly let out a small, quivering breath and Sherlock decided to discard his thoughts for ten minutes, despite all his intuition. He caged her against the counter, biting at her mouth feverishly. His hands hooked around her pants, tugging them low enough. In an instant he felt a guttural sound emit from his throat when he looked down to see Molly's hand wrapped around him. Small traces of sweat made her hair stick to her brow. Then, without warning, as though some primitive urge had possessed him, he pushed. It made her cry out loud, her muscles tensing so it was painful.

He stopped.

"What?" He breathed worriedly, his breath uneven as he tried to overcome the sensation of having her warmness encompassing him. Molly shook her head and motioned downwards, relaxing.

"Go."

When prepared, the feeling of him was second to none. He pushed against her, hitting the most sensational of points inside her. Her breathing hitched. Her arm swept back and a mug and some other instruments went flying, something smashing. They ignored it and he pushed harder, her back skidding across the wood, the pain of it burning her skin as she fought against his thrusts. Her nails found his neck, clawing as she felt him push at her.

"Oh." She moaned, her mouth in a perfect 'o'. She screamed it louder, the way she pulsed around him causing him to shudder in return, pulling away just as his release dripped down his hand.

Molly lay sprawled across the counter for a few more seconds before she sat upright, watching Sherlock Holmes as he leant against the wooden work surface trying to regulate his breathing. A small nudge of pride burned inside Molly when she realised it was _her_ who had rendered the great Sherlock Holmes powerless. He pulled a cloth from the table and wiped his hands before looking back at Molly, his blue eyes flickering between her brown ones. Slowly he reached down and picked up her jeans.

"You better get these on." He said, averting his gaze away from her naked bottom half, "John will be back in about fifty seconds."

Molly looked at him and almost laughed. It was only when Molly saw that Sherlock was buttoning his trousers and tucking his shirt tails back in with haste that she realised he was being serious. Molly Hooper had never put on a pair of jeans so fast in her life.

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><p><strong>Right so I'm thinking there's going to be one more chapter, then the prologue. I want a little JohnSherlock interaction before it ends. Thank you for all the reviews throughout the story. You've kept me motivated! :) Will John clock on in the next chapter? Mwaha.**

**x**


	13. Realise

**Hey guys. This is the last chapter before the epilogue. :( It's time for this story to come to a close. I am trying to tie up any loose ends. I enjoy the dynamic of John/Sherlock, and, even though the story was pretty Sherlolly centric, we all know Sherlock and John are two friends a woman can't split up. I always feel it's fitting to end these sort of things with John and Sherlock. Anway, continuing after the previous porn chapter. Bit awkward, but soon decends into male/male banter/awkwardness. You'll see what I mean.**

**x**

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><p><strong>R E A L I S E<strong>

John pushed into the flat just as Molly flipped her hair back off her flushed face, the pair of them standing awkwardly idle in the void between the kitchen and the living room.

"Sherlock, did Mrs Hudson get any…" John stopped as he realised Molly Hooper was standing in his kitchen, "Hello."

"Hello." Molly replied quickly, producing the best smile she could. John looked between the pair and shuffled forward, a carrier bag in his hand.

"I'll put that away." Sherlock held out his hand, trying his best to look serious in the light of John Watson's bemused face. John slowly handed the carrier bag to Sherlock and turned back to the living room.

"Not at work today Molly?" John asked politely, shuffling through some letters on the coffee table. "Or has Sherlock been working you hard again instead?"

It was supposed to be innocent, yet John felt himself stutter at the way they came out. He blushed, Molly blushed and Sherlock silently rolled his eyes at the cupboard door. John was almost about to correct himself, perhaps even apologise for his mistake, when Molly graciously interrupted.

"No, no. He just needed my opinion on some…anatomical…things." She fumbled with the words, before opting for a simpler sentence, "Tonight. I'm on a late shift again." She almost breathed a sigh of relief that she'd managed to get the words out this time. Sherlock cast a look at her as he pushed the bottles of wine into the cupboard. Quickly he motioned towards his shoulder, motioning Molly to pull her vest strap up. Quickly she whisked the fallen strap up over her shoulder.

"Well." She said slowly in the midst of the silence, "If you need my help anymore just give me a call." She didn't know why she'd said that, but she had. She had thought it might sound like there was a more innocent point to her visit, though as the words left her mouth she realised there may be far more connotations to them. Sherlock rolled his eyes out of sight of John and sniffed.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay for lunch, Molly?" John looked up, getting to his feet. "You're more than welcome."

"I'm sure Molly would appreciate some sleep before her shift tonight." Sherlock's blue eyes met Molly's, "Wouldn't you?"

"Yes." Molly had never felt so awkward. She wanted to leave, get away from John Watson's interrogating eye, get back to her house and relive the whole experience all over again. This was humiliating enough. The way John had blushed was all she needed to know; Sherlock had told him about their night and, judging by the clumsy way John had been speaking, she guessed he'd noticed that something had been happening about five minutes prior to walking in.

"Thank you for your help, Molly." Sherlock said smoothly, his arm outstretched with her cardigan hanging from his grip. She took it and wrapped it around her body.  
>"I'm sure I'll see the pair of you soon." She smiled, hurrying towards the door, "See you later."<p>

As the door shut the two men stood motionless, Sherlock in the kitchen pushing food into the cupboard while John fiddled with some papers.

"You never put the shopping away." John said slowly, eyes squinting at his flatmate.

"Molly Hooper is never in our flat." Sherlock countered, "Today seems to be brimming with novelties doesn't it?"

The doctor took a step towards the kitchen. "There are Petri dishes on the floor." John mentioned simply.

"Are there?" Sherlock said evasively, glancing down as though he hadn't seen them.

"Mm." John cocked his head, "And a smashed mug."

"Really?" Sherlock sighed, "How interesting."  
>"Why are all your papers moved?"<br>"What?"  
>"And your microscope." John moved closer to the table, reaching out to pick up one of the cloths.<br>"I…wouldn't touch that." Sherlock warned him quietly. John snapped his hand away looking with concern at the disarray of the table. He knew Sherlock wouldn't let his work area get this messy. Unless…

"Oh God, you didn't did you?"  
>"Didn't what?"<p>

"That's why she was here?" John rubbed a hand down his face, "Clean this up, now. We have to prepare food here."  
>"<em>Mrs Hudson<em> has to prepare food here." Sherlock corrected, "I don't see what your problem is, John, I really don't. You bring your girlfriends back here all the time and…" he faltered, "Do things."

"Not on the kitchen counter." John paused, sniffing. He hadn't really thought about Molly and Sherlock, even after he'd admitted to sleeping with her a few days before. He'd put Sherlock and Molly's one night stand down to general curiosity on Sherlock's behalf, and lust on Molly's. But now he was bringing her home, sleeping with her all the time.

"So is Molly your girlfriend?" He asked plainly. It was a legitimate question but Sherlock looked at him as though he'd just accused him of the most heinous of crimes.

"No." Sherlock snapped, "Why on earth would you think that?"  
>"Well you did sleep with her again."<br>"We never slept." Sherlock corrected pedantically.

"Clearly." The doctor tilted his head, "You can't keep doing this you know?"  
>"Doing what?"<p>

"Sleeping—having sex with Molly because you know she will." John stopped, trying to gage Sherlock's reaction, "You need to realise Molly is a woman with feelings. And you're going to hurt them if you keep doing what you're doing."

Sherlock realised that John Watson knew nothing about what the two of them had been through in the past few days. Both Molly and Sherlock knew that sleeping together meant nothing more than caring. They knew they weren't boyfriend and girlfriend. In the past week or so, Molly and Sherlock had come to realise a lot more about one another than they ever had in five years of being acquaintances. Sherlock understood he probably needed the pretty morgue attendant more than he'd ever realised. He'd grown fond of the woman. He'd learnt that maybe she was braver than he'd initially thought, and that perhaps, if he was very lucky, she would consider him her friend. Like John Watson, Sherlock felt Molly Hooper had earned a special place in his life.

"Thank you for the advice, John." Sherlock said dismissively, obviously not taking a grain of advice from the man. The detective moved his microscope back into the middle of the table and resumed his normal spot on the stool looking into it.

John noted this as the end of their discussion and shook his head. He had a feeling this would be the last time they ever discussed it.

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><p><strong>This seemed a lot more fitting for MollySherlock. I don't think they'd ever be in a relationship, but, like at the end of TRF, Sherlock truly begins to appreciate Molly for who she is. I think this is much more special than them ever getting married and having lots of babies (though I wouldn't be adverse to such a storyline, Moffiss). I like the idea of Molly being on par with John in that department, she does deserve it. **

**The epilogue will be Molly centric. We can all see how she feels about the whole situation before it closes.**

**Thank you all for the interest, I'm blown away by all your lovely comments and your loyalty for following it. :))**

**Love you all. Let me know what you think. Apologies for any mistakes. It's 1AM and I've been up since 6AM yesterday. I needed to write this chapter though. Epilogue will be up soon :) Thanks again you gorgeous lot.**

**x**


	14. Epilogue

**Alas, we have reached the end. I am particularly happy with this chapter. It sort of rounds it off neatly. As promised, Molly Hooper's thoughts on the situation. I do love that woman.**

**Please enjoy and review as much as you want to.**

**Many thanks for your interest in the story; your comments and follows have made it so much easier and relaxing to continue.**

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><p><strong>E P I L O G U E<strong>

In four days Molly Hooper had done more than she'd done in four years. She'd kissed a woman and saved a man. She'd stared danger right between the eyes and stood it down.

She'd had sex with Sherlock Holmes.

Not bad for a morgue attendant, she reassured herself. She didn't know whether or not she'd do it all again. Were two nights with Sherlock Holmes worth all that pain? Molly looked at the clock. She needed to be at work in a few hours. Tomorrow she'd probably see Sherlock Holmes and life would be back to how it started; he'd be looking in a microscope with John Watson at his side. She'd bring him coffee and he wouldn't say thank you.

She realised she didn't care. Four days ago she would have, but now she saw that life was far too intricate to base it around one man.

Sherlock Holmes was not her boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes did not love her.

For the past four days, Sherlock Holmes had just been the man in the hospital; the enigma. Now she'd seen him stripped down to the bare necessities and, although he was an odd man, he was still human.

She loved him, but the enigma was gone. Saying that, a flutter of pride flickered its way through her when she realised she was probably one of the very few women that had ever slept, or even kissed Sherlock Holmes. She liked that thought.

If she couldn't have anything else in life she'd have that thought. It was a silly thing to cling dear to.

Molly was just about to curl up and snatch a couple of hours sleep before her shift when her phone bleeped from her pocket. His name.

_To Kill a Mockingbird, Chapter 11, 14th line. –SH _

She looked at the text with confusion. What the bloody hell was he on about?

_I think you sent that to the wrong person. – MH _

_No. On your bookshelf. Fifth book in on the top shelf. – SH._

Molly looked up at the bookcase. There it was, Harper Lee's _To Kill a Mockingbird_ beaming proudly down. God that man see's everything, she thought. She'd studied the book in secondary school; not that she ever read it these days, it's just she couldn't bring herself to throw books away. She flitted through the pages until she reached the designated page.

"_I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."_

She sat back down on the chair and smiled. Was this his round about way of telling her she was brave? Was he trying to tell her that what she did for him with Irene Adler was worthy of respect? In all honesty she was more surprised than anything that Sherlock Holmes had chosen literature as a way of giving her this message; he didn't seem the type to go around reading novels.

_Maybe that was the point_, she thought. Sherlock Holmes didn't read novels, and Molly Hooper knew that. Perhaps that made this particular quote special. There was method to his madness. She gave up trying to deduce his text message and smiled. Molly closed the book and picked up her phone, texting him back.

_Thank you. – MH_

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><p><em><em>**Ah. I can't believe I wrote a multi-chaptered story. I'm so happy. Hope you liked the Harper Lee quote :) I have always liked that book. The fact that Sherlock doesn't know anything about popular culture yet chooses to send Molly a quote from a book I thought was very special to see. :)**

**Thanks for all your support!**

**Hopefully will be writing more soon.**

**xxx**


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